


a throat full of teeth

by anoddconstellationofthoughts



Series: home of the found [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baker Jaskier, Dadskier, Death in Childbirth, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Healing, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Gore, Nightmares, Original Character Death(s), Slow Burn, Vomiting, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Ships It, as in jaskier is a daddy, come explore my love of bread with me, except i make it a lil bit worse and fix it like a decade later, geralt likes to garden, playing fast and loose with the realities of the 13th century, this isn't all heartbreak i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts/pseuds/anoddconstellationofthoughts
Summary: It occurred to Jaskier, as he forced his own feet to move, one ahead of the other, that Geralt hadn’t once shifted from where he stood on the mountain, arms ridged by his side, staring out into the valley, ass clenched like there was no tomorrow.He really had just let Jaskier leave.Jaskier clenched his jaw. Guess this one is for real then.When he arrived back at camp he gathered his things and gave Roach a gentle pat.He’d told Geralt “see you around,” but he didn’t think it would happen.No, actually, he decided. He was planning on it.jaskier and geralt lose each other. it takes a long time to be found again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s), Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Original Female Character(s)
Series: home of the found [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1811845
Comments: 164
Kudos: 546
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_static_world](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/gifts).



> for [static](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world), who puts up with my endless screeching and also made me watch the witcher and listen to the horror and the wild. i love you lots n lots :)
> 
> special thanks to [linenandlustrous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linenandlustrous/pseuds/linenandlustrous) for proofing this even tho when you started you knew absolutely nothing about this fandom. you're the bestest.
> 
> anyway, this is based primarily on the netflix series and a handful of bits i stole from the witcher wiki and the occasional informational tumblr post and fic. it begins with the infamous mountain scene and stretches on for years after that.
> 
> enjoy!

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”_

_“...Right. Uh. Right then.” Take a shattered breath. “I’ll… I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.”_

_Nothing._

_Six painful, drawn-out seconds._

_Finality. Surrender._

_“See you around, Geralt.”_

It occurred to Jaskier, as he forced his own feet to move, one ahead of the other, that Geralt hadn’t once shifted from where he stood on the mountain, arms rigid by his side, staring out into the valley, ass clenched like there was no tomorrow. 

He really had just let Jaskier leave.

Jaskier clenched his jaw. _Guess this one is for real then._

When he arrived back at camp he gathered his things and gave Roach a gentle pat.

He’d told Geralt “see you around,” but he didn’t think it would happen. 

No, actually, he decided. He was planning on it. 

Destiny, unfortunately, didn’t have the same idea. 

Five months after the mountain, Jaskier walked into a tavern with the intent of staying at the inn upstairs and maybe even landing himself a gig. Geralt sat at a table in the far corner when he walked in.

The witcher’s head shot up when he caught the bard's scent, eyes wide and jaw slack. He pushed his meal aside, and moved as if he wanted to stand and shove through the crowd toward Jaskier, to gather him in his arms and apologize, grovel, beg for his forgiveness-

Jaskier felt his expression turn to ice.

He spun on his heel and exited the tavern, the door swinging wildly behind him.

Geralt did not follow him out.

This happened twice more: Jaskier and Geralt crossing paths, Geralt looking like he wanted to stop Jaskier more than anything, and Jaskier resolutely ignoring him. It never went beyond that for either of them. 

If either of them really wanted to fix things, they would have by now, Jaskier resolved. And he was okay with it not changing from the way it was. 

After that, it seemed destiny had gotten the point.

Jaskier spent the next winter at Oxenfurt, surrounded by students and faculty who welcomed him with open arms (and, for a handful of them, open legs). It was not long before he was offered a position as a professor, which he gratefully accepted for the time being. The news of his music and fame had reached the university long before he had, and his students and coworkers often asked him about his travels with the White Wolf, always wanting to know “what was he _really_ like?” and “did he really do that?” and “why aren’t you with him anymore?”

The first time Jaskier heard the last question he’d shut down so fast the boy apologized in an instant and changed the subject.

The fortieth time he heard the last question he shrugged and smiled wanly. “Oh, you know,” he said, “sometimes destiny leads you in different directions. You find your way.” The professor nodded in understanding and that was it.

It was nice, being in Oxenfurt. Though his contract for the winter semester ended in March, he stayed a little while longer. His students were (mostly) earnest and willing, the other professors were (mostly) respectful and cordial. After a couple of years, Jaskier was known well enough at the university that the questions about Geralt slowed down. They still came, of course, but at a near glacial pace, enough so that Jaskier could almost pretend they didn’t exist. It was in those moments that he felt the most at peace. 

  
  


But, like all good things, his time at Oxenfurt came to an end. Jaskier grew restless, as he was wont to do. He bought a horse, whom he named Bumble, and bid a teary “goodbye” to some and a cheerful “good riddance” to others. Then he left, no end destination in mind, only a desire to drift in the breeze and go wherever destiny took him.

It just so happened that it took him to a small town called Schwarnick, where Geralt had just cleared a nest of drowners and was about to leave when he and Jaskier, quite literally, ran into each other. 

The other patrons of the tavern stared at them as they blinked at each other. 

Geralt cleared his throat. “Jaskier-”

“Nope,” Jaskier said loudly, before turning and making a beeline to the door.

This time, Geralt followed him out.

“Jas- Jaskier, wait, just- hold _on_ a minute, _Jask-_ ” 

The bard whirled on him, fast enough that Geralt almost mowed him over. “What the _fuck_ do you want, Geralt?”

The witcher swallowed. “I.”

“Yes?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows, mocking. “I’m waiting.”

Geralt clenched his jaw, his eyes darting around. “Can we do this somewhere else?” 

Jaskier glanced at the tavern, where the whole crowd had pressed against the window to watch the fight. A quick scan of the street revealed that the rest of the town had followed suit.

Jaskier took a deep breath, exhaling carefully through his nose. He’d choreographed this fight in his head years ago. He knew what he was going to do.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure, whatever.” 

Geralt seemed to sag in relief before leading him to the woods nearby and into a clearing, dense enough that sound would have trouble escaping it, but not so much that finding their way out would be difficult.

“What do you want, Geralt?” Jaskier repeated. He crossed his arms. Yellow eyes followed the movement. 

“I. Want to talk,” Geralt said, haltingly. 

“About what?”

The witcher swallowed. “I- I’ve missed you.”

The script he had taken so much time and care to cultivate dissolved behind Jaskier’s eyes. He couldn’t stop the noise that flew out of his throat. 

“You’ve- _missed me?”_

Geralt’s brow furrowed and unfurrowed as he appeared to realize that this was, evidently, the wrong thing to say. “...Yes?”

“No.” 

The witcher’s whole face scrunched up. “What?”

“No!” Jaskier yelled, indignant fury sending birds flying. “You don’t _get_ to miss me, Geralt, not after what you said. You don’t get to miss me because it’s _your_ fault I left, _your_ fault you were alone. You told me your greatest wish was for me to disappear off the face of the fucking earth, and you got it! _You don’t get to miss me!_ ” 

Geralt’s pale face went slack. “Jaskier, I-”

“You wanna know what your deal is?” Jaskier pointed a finger at Geralt’s chest, at the wolf medallion hanging around his neck and the heart beating behind it. “I’ll tell you what your deal is. Your deal is that you’re so utterly convinced that you know what’s right for yourself and everyone else that you don’t even stop to _consider_ that you could be wrong. You do what you think is right regardless of whether it has anything to do with what anyone else wants, regardless of what _you_ want!” Jaskier stepped closer, the accusing finger still outstretched, and Geralt looked like he was fighting the urge to retreat.

“Better yet,” the bard continued, condescension dripping from his chapped lips, “you don’t even _know_ what you want! You saw one beautiful mage and tied your destiny to hers as if you had any _right_ to fuck with her life like that without even asking. Tell me, Geralt,” he sneered, “how is dearest Yennefer? Are you two married yet, or have your encounters with her been anything like ours?” 

The hard set of Geralt’s jaw told Jaskier all he needed to know.

“That’s what I thought.” Jaskier laughed, high and bitter and sharp. “You let her leave you on that mountain just like the rest of us and she never wanted to come back.” 

“That’s not how it happened,” Geralt growled.

“No, it is, that’s exactly how it happened!” Jaskier cried, swinging his arms out wide. “You fought with all three of us, first Yennefer, then Borch, then me, and then you _stayed_ on that mountain so that _we_ could leave _you_ . You could have stormed off and made your own dramatic exit, found some other way to do it, but _nooo_ you had to make sure that in the end, even if you were the one to push us away, we were the ones who left you.” He cocked his head and placed his hands on bent knees, mocking. “Is that how you justify it to yourself, hm? Widdol ol’ Gewawt of Wivia, always gets weft by his widdol ol’ fwiends because nowone wuvs him?” Jaskier straightened abruptly. “Get fucked.” 

Geralt looked like Jaskier had slapped him. Several times. And hard. 

Jaskier struggled to swallow, suddenly aware of how horrible he felt. His arms hung too heavy by his sides.

“So does that count as enough talking? Is that good enough for you?” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, rage souring in the pit of his stomach. Something festering had been cut loose, something Jaskier had forgotten how to feel. 

Storm clouds gathered on Geralt’s cheeks, and a rebellious part of Jaskier reveled in it. The rest of him braced itself.

“I know what’s right, and I know what I want. I know that I don’t need a bard like _you_ to tell-”

Jaskier cut him off. “What do you want then?”

Geralt didn’t say anything, staring at Jaskier like that was the last thing he had expected the other man to ask. 

“Go on, then,” Jaskier encouraged. He hoped his voice wasn’t trembling the way it did in his head. “I mean it. What do you want, Geralt, in your truest heart of hearts? What do you want most out of anything in the entire world?”

Geralt stared at him, nostrils flared, lips drawn tight. 

Jaskier gestured at him to continue. 

“I want. Ciri to be safe. And happy.”

“Ah, yes, the Child Surprise, I forgot about her,” Jaskier mused, surprising both of them with how gentle his voice was. “And for yourself?”

The witcher opened his mouth. And closed it. And opened it again but Jaskier took pity on him and interrupted, unable to watch Geralt continue to struggle. 

“You don’t have to tell me, that’s fine. I won’t gloat over the fact that I’m right,” Jaskier said, hating himself as he did. “It’s fine.”

The forest had gone near-silent around them. Then-

“What do you want, Jaskier?”

The bard raised his eyebrows, taken aback. He rolled the thought around his skull, before finding himself saying, “I think that I would like some hot stew and fresh bread. And perhaps a wife. And some children.” He tilted his head back and forced a faint smile to play along his lips. “And one more hit song before it all ends. I’m getting on in my years, Geralt. I think it’s time for me to settle down.”

Geralt’s eyes flashed- pain, indignation, sadness. It was a low blow and Jaskier knew it, but perhaps that was why he said it. Perhaps that was why he already regretted it.

“Yes. That’s what I want, Geralt.” _A future that doesn’t include you_. 

He didn’t say it. Regardless, they both heard it loud and clear. 

Jaskier put his hands in the pocket of his dusty blue trousers and lowered blue eyes to meet Geralt’s. “Does that answer your question?”

A muscle in the witcher’s jaw ticked, but he stayed silent. His gaze slid to a point over Jaskier’s shoulder, not seeing, just resting. This was his surrender.

Jaskier nodded. “Right. Well, then.” He began walking out of the clearing, past Geralt, back to the town and the poor horse he had abandoned there. “See you around, Geralt.”

Geralt made a noise that sounded like it was pulled out of him on a hook and fishing line. His arm shot out to grab Jaskier’s, desperate, clinging. “Wait.”

Jaskier looked at the hand on his wrist, scarred and calloused and familiar, but in the way that a childhood house is, years after you’ve moved out. In some way, it’s still home, but it’s not the same. 

It's haunted. 

Some primal, animalistic creature behind Geralt’s eyes was terrified, snarling, ready to tear out. At that moment, all Jaskier wanted to do was hold him, as he would have all those years ago.

Instead, he said nothing and waited, as Geralt had asked.

“I… know what I want.”

Jaskier hummed.

“Come stay with us.”

His heart ripped free of its tethers and spilled out all over the forest floor.

“Come to Kaer Morhen. Meet Ciri and my brothers and Vesemir.” He hesitated then reached for Jaskier’s other hand and held it. Jaskier let him, and gold eyes shone with hope and… something else.

“Stay with us. It- it’ll be like it used to be, when-”

Jaskier gently tugged his hands from Geralt’s. His whole body ached. 

“It’ll never be like it used to be,” he said. Distantly, he thought he might be trembling. “Never again.”

Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever seen Geralt so anguished. “Jaskier.”

“Goodbye, Geralt.”

And with that, Jaskier left the forest, feigning a casual stroll as he broke the treeline, hollow eyes on his back the whole way. His hands clutched the sleeves of his doublet, trying to keep his own fingernails from digging holes into his palms. He didn’t stop until he and his horse were far from the town, from _Geralt_. 

That was not how the fight was supposed to go.

He was too drained and tired to cry.

Three seasons came and went before Jaskier found what he was looking for.

Well, he found what he’d told Geralt he was looking for, anyway.

Her name was Lilia, and she quickly became the center of his whole universe. 

Lilia was the resident baker of a small town named Tenby. They met when Jaskier rode by her shop, nearly falling off his horse at the sight of her. 

Her dark skin shone in the pink, muted light of the rising sun. A mess of tight curls peeking out of the handkerchief tied around her head framed a soft face and softer eyes. The cut of her sandy colored wool tunic and apron did nothing to disguise the warm curves of her body. 

She laughed at him when he stopped his horse and stumbled off, attempting his best saunter and flirty smile as he offered her a hand with her deliveries.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “How do I know you won’t just run off with all my bread?”

Every remotely intelligent thought (of which there were arguably few) flew out of his head. “Uh.”

Her lips turned upward, amused, and instead of defending himself, he said, “You have dimples.”

Like an idiot.

She cackled, a hand covering her mouth to hide it. He thought it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. You’re very sweet.”

Jaskier shook his head vehemently, hoping the sun hadn't yet risen enough to betray the blush on his cheeks. “No, no, you’re right to laugh. It was a dumb thing to say.”

She tipped her head to the side. “Cute, though.”

He promptly forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

“I’m Lilia,” she said, stretching out a hand to him.

He kissed it, lips only brushing her skin. “Jaskier.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jaskier,” she said, like she truly meant it. “I’ve got to make my deliveries now, but perhaps if you’re still around tomorrow you could help then.”

He nodded, more than a little dumbstruck, managing to get out, “The pleasure’s all mine.”

He would be there the next morning to help with her deliveries.

And the next morning.

And the next.

Until eventually he did them all on his own, waking up next to her before the sun to prepare for a day of baking and haggling and cleaning by Lilia’s side.

He really did think he’d ever been happier.

Jaskier soon learned that no one came to Tenby unless they were a traveling merchant or lost. 

The town was small enough to be missing from most maps. The lord who reigned over it hadn’t bothered with much of anything in years and barely remembered to collect what meager tithe for which he asked. It was far enough out of the way from any neighboring or larger villages that once could only happen upon it by chance. Jaskier had arrived there in precisely that way, and so had Lilia, leaving home after a plague ravaged her village when she was 13, then ricocheting from place to place until she found Tenby.

“Tenby collects the lost,” she said, toying with the edge of a hand cloth, messily embroidered daisies lining the frayed ends. She set the towel down and resumed kneading her dough. “I still miss my parents, but this town is enough family for me.” 

Jaskier’s cheeks warmed and he straightened his shoulders. He was part of that now. 

“Who were you running from?”

The question socked Jaskier in the gut. He set down the jar of bread starter, wincing as it clattered too loudly on the counter. “Pardon?”

“Or, ‘what,’ I suppose,” Lilia mused. “But I thought it was a ‘who.’” She glanced at Jaskier out of the corner of her eye, smiling, then did a double-take at the look at his face. She took his hands, dough behind her forgotten. “Oh, Melitele, I’m sorry, that was insensitive, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, it’s alright, you’re alright,” Jaskier soothed, willing the ache in his chest to fade. “I guess I just hadn’t… thought of that.”

“Of what?” Her dark eyes pooled with concern. 

Her hands were sticky against his, and he stared at them, taking in every line and wrinkle and faint scar. “Of… running. I didn’t think I was still running.”

“Are you?”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. “I think I was.” His eyes flickered up to hers. For someone so close to him in age, her eyes were remarkably young, shadowed only by the passage of time. Years of abuse and neglect and fighting tooth and nail to get by had not broken her. 

“But not anymore?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. A loose curl threatened to fall into her eyes.

He might love her. 

“Not anymore.”

Her hands tightened around his.

He really might love her.

Then something occurred to him. “What did you mean, ‘who?’”

Lilia frowned a little. “The man you were with before you came here. The witcher,” she said, like that in any way answered Jaskier’s question. She shrugged at his narrowed eyes. “People recognized you after a while. Also, you talk in your sleep.”

_Ah, yes. That._

Her frown deepened. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, it’s alright.”

“You keep saying that,” she pointed out, shaking her head a little. “Is it?”

“Yes,” he said, firm. “It is.”

Lilia went quiet, and Jaskier realized they were still holding hands.

“Did you love him?”

Somehow, this punch didn’t hurt as much as the first. Perhaps he’d been expecting it.

Jaskier exhaled. “I don’t know.”

Lilia waited. 

“For a while, I thought I did. I might have. I could have. If I had let myself.” His brows knit together before he added, “If he had let me.” 

“But not anymore?” Lilia repeated.

“Not anymore,” Jaskier echoed. Warmth blossomed on her face. 

“You know, I had one of those once.” A mischievous smile spread across her lips as she placed his hands on her waist and slipped hers around his neck, still sticky and warm. “His name was Burhtred,” she wiggled her eyebrows, “and he was the son of a lord.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, amused, but unsure of where she was headed with this. “Sounds like quite the fellow.”

“No,” she shook her head, “thinking back on it, he was a bit of a prat. I like musicians more, anyway.” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “They’re better with their fingers.”

_Gods above._

“It,” Jaskier tightened his hands around her waist, “is ten o’clock in the morning.”

Lilia cackled and released her hold on him, stepping back. “Yes. But you’re smiling now.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, trying, and failing, to wipe the grin off of his face. “Temptress.”

Lilia put one hand on the counter and the other on her hip, smirking. “Perhaps.”

He really did think he loved her.

The moment was interrupted by a customer entering the shop. Jaskier busied himself with feeding the starters and Lilia faced the customer, wiping her hands on the hand towel. Jaskier kept his eyes down, but turned toward the door when Lilia cautiously said, “Can I help you, miss?”

Yennefer wheezed heavily, clutching her stomach, red leaking through her fingers and extravagant, gray gown. A trail of blood dribbled down her chin. “Oh. Hey… Jaskier. Funny… seeing you. Here.”

Jaskier almost shattered the starters on the floor in his haste to set them down before Yennefer’s head met the ground.

The mage’s abdomen was a maze of strange burns and gashes. The medic, a shorter woman with stern gray eyes, had slipped off the Yennefer;s ruined dress in place for a simple pair of trousers and a loose tunic, so as not to aggravate the wound. The medic herself only had a scrap of magic compared to the mage, but she was able to close some of the wounds after cleaning them well enough, opting to sew up the larger cuts. The bandages would have to be replaced and the stitches cleaned daily, but she could take care of that if Yen would stay with her.

Lilia decided for Jaskier that he would remain with Yennefer, that she would handle the bakery on her own. She had done it for years before him and could do it once more, but Jaskier still mourned the loss of another day by her side.

“She knows you,” Lilia reasoned, calm against Jaskier’s jittering anxiety. “And if she’s as powerful as you say, we can’t risk her waking up scared and hurting someone on accident.” She pressed her lips to his cheek. “I’ll be alright.” 

“I wouldn’t say we _know_ each other, but…” he nodded, unsure yet trusting, “okay.” 

She smiled at him once more before she left for the bakery.

The medic swept back into the room with an armful of herbs and vials. “She’ll need a couple drops of this when she wakes up and every few hours henceforth.” She handed him the smallest bottle before placing the rest in a basket. “If she wakes up while I’m gone, tell her I’ll be back soon.”

Jaskier wet his lips. “I will.”

The medic nodded cordially to him and readjusted her headscarf before strolling out the door.

Yennefer didn’t wake up for four days.

Jaskier made trips back to the bakery and to Lilia when he could, but for the most part, she never let him stay long. During his absence, as brief as it was, she enlisted the help of one of their neighbors' eldest daughter, Netta. The girl was a little older than 20, all fiery hair and brighter eyes, and a force to be reckoned with. Jaskier hadn’t been in Tenby long enough to know her family well, but he remembered his own family. He could understand why she preferred Lilia and the bakery to whatever she did at home. 

Netta’s first exchange with Jaskier went like this:

“Oh, so _that’s_ the one you were talking about.”

Jaskier stared at the _child_ in his shop, behind the counter where he usually stood. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mm… granted,” she said, tucking a strand of fine hair behind a pale ear.

Lilia giggled, a soft blush high on her cheeks. “Jaskier, this is Netta, Netta this is Jaskier. Her parents requested we give her something to do before she burned their whole house down.” 

Jaskier nodded faintly. “And what makes us think that she won’t burn ours down instead?”

“Oh, no, it’s not really my style,” Netta waved a hand dismissively. “My parents are just dramatic and since I finished my studies but refuse to marry the first boy they find, I’m driving them up the walls.”

Lilia‘s smile was proud. Jaskier sighed. 

“Alright. Welcome to the bakery, Netta.” 

Lilia beamed at him like the sun shone out of his ass. Netta grinned. 

Alright. He could get used to this.

Yennefer woke up quietly, motionlessly, and if Jaskier hadn’t spent twenty years on the road with a witcher, he never would have noticed the slight change in her breathing.

“Morning, Yen,” he plucked a couple of chords on his lute. Lilia kept him busy enough that he wasn’t playing as much as usual, so the chance to do so was lovely, even if it had been spent in a stranger’s house beside a comatose witch.

“It is,” Yen cracked open her eyes to stare out the window of the medic’s spare room, “almost dusk.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier set the lute down to retrieve the vial from beside him. “You’ve been out for almost four days.”

“I’m surprised not longer,” the medic said, swinging open the door from the hallway and bearing an armful of fresh bread. “Netta just dropped these off for you, Jaskier.”

He accepted them gratefully before removing the stopper of the vial. “Open your mouth. It’s just a couple of drops.”

Yennefer glared at him, distrusting, gradually working up to rest on her forearms. He just shook the bottle in front of her face.

“It’s to boost your immunity. You may be a mighty and fantastical witch, but you’ve still got a body to take care of.”

She bared her teeth, but yanked the bottle and poured a little in her mouth, swallowing with a grimace. “Where am I?”

“Tenby.” 

She raised an eyebrow as if to say, _That means absolutely nothing to me._

He shrugged. “What happened to you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Jaskier and the medic’s eyes traveled to Yennefer’s belly where the bandages were. He remembered what Geralt had said to her on the mountain. 

“Ah.”

Yennefer pursed her lips in response.

“How did you get here?” Jaskier asked, tentatively.

“Not sure,” she rasped. “I just… opened a portal and dove in.”

 _Tenby collects the lost,_ Lilia had said.

“Here,” the medic handed her a goblet of water. “Drink up.” 

The mage took it and stared wearily. 

“I’m Saphia,” the medic said, soothing, and Jaskier realized with a jolt that he’d never asked her name. “Welcome to Tenby. You’re safe here.”

Something in Yennefer’s eyes opened up and she downed the water before they could see it.

Jaskier still noticed.

Yennefer eventually moved into one of the spare rooms, across from where Netta was staying in the house behind the bakery. Lilia had been wanting to claim the old house and renovate it for a while, and Jaskier was more than willing to lend a hand. It was in good condition, and with Yennefer and Netta joining the couple, they had enough hands to manage. The two women had gotten along like a raging inferno from the second they’d met, and it terrified Jaskier as equally as it delighted Lilia.

Saphia prohibited Yennefer from leaving Tenby until she was completely healed and had all of her strength and magic back. Much to Jaskier’s shock, the mage agreed.

Jaskier and Lilia’s home had grown, and surprisingly enough, he was content with it. 

Yennefer and Jaskier walked to Saphia’s office every morning for a week after she woke, both so Yennefer could begin moving again and to get a check-up from the medic. The first two days, they said nothing. The walk was short enough that it wasn’t terribly awkward, but Yennefer’s arm looped through Jaskier’s was enough. If she didn’t have to lean on him to take a shallow breath every handful of steps, Jaskier was sure she would have burnt him to a crisp by now.

On the third day, Yennefer surprised him.

“Do you hate me?”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “What?”

“Answer the question, bard.” 

He thought about it, before deciding to answer honestly. “I think I did. Sometimes, when you and Geralt would go off and… do things. Whenever he came back he was quieter than usual, but would never tell me why.” He sighed. “I think I hated you in those moments. I’m not by any means fond of you, never was, but I think I only hated you in those moments.”

The mage nodded, as though she had expected this exact statement from him.

“Why?”

“Oh, I…” Yennefer trailed off before shrugging. “I hate- used to hate- you for the same reasons. I didn’t want to stay with him, but you did. I envied you for that.”

Jaskier snorted. “You shouldn’t have.”

Purple eyes assessed him, but he kept his gaze forward. After a pause, she laughed.

It was strained and harsh, but more than he’d ever heard from her. “You’re right,” Yennefer said, as though she hadn’t just shattered Jaskier’s entire perception of her. “I shouldn’t have.”

They walked in amicable silence the rest of the way.

Even after Yennefer had regained most of her strength, she still visited Saphia, though the times in which she did so varied. She brushed it away with the excuse that she was teaching the medic how to better use what little magic she had. It had absolutely nothing to do with her unusually messy hair and slightly smeared makeup. Lilia only smiled knowingly at her when she announced this, and Jaskier loudly proclaimed that he didn’t want to know.

For over half a year, the four of them (plus Saphia, on occasion) lived together in the old house behind the bakery. They worked together to clean it out, replacing cracked windows and crumbling furniture until the house was clean and bare and new.

Jaskier had been raised with all sisters and his father had been distant on a good day. He found he preferred this to anything he’d experienced growing up. 

He loved them all. Even Yennefer, to an extent. She could be fun when she wasn’t trying to kill him or steal his only friend. She insulted him mercilessly, more so than Lilia and Netta, but he discovered that when she didn’t mean it, he enjoyed that. 

He was happy. 

He was home.

But even that couldn’t last forever.

Yen left Tenby after seven months. By then, she’d healed and regained full control of her magic. Someone had summoned her across the continent, but she wouldn’t tell anyone more than that.

Before she left, she pulled Jaskier aside. 

“Thank you,” she said, hands in the pockets of her dress, lips thin. “I’ll admit I never thought I’d be here with _you_ , of all people, but it’s not so bad once you get used to it.” She shrugged, jaw clenched. “If I had any sense in me, I’d probably want to come back.”

Jaskier bit his lip, calculating, before launching himself at her and squeezing hard before releasing her. Her eyes were wide when he stepped back, hands resting on her shoulders. “Do come back. Please. You’ll always have a place here.”

A muscle in her temple feathered. “I’ll remember that.”

He felt something in his chest move and he dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Take care out there, witch.”

“You as well, bard.” Her lips twisted in a crooked smile, but her eyes shone with something soft and real. “Summon me when the next addition to the family comes.” 

Jaskier furrowed his brow. “Next addition?”

Yennefer smirked and walked toward where Lilia, Netta, and Saphia were waiting by the bakery. Jaskier stared after her, dumbfounded, before shaking it off and jogging to catch up.

She portalled away on a warm evening in September, and even the wind whispered goodbye. 

Life moved on, as expected. A young boy arrived in Tenby, claiming Saphia as his aunt. Netta continued to soak up everything Lilia taught her, and Jaskier composed a new song. 

This one was about an adventure, but not the kind Jaskier was used to.

Lilia kissed him on the temple and told him it was his best one yet.

“Do you ever miss him?”

Jaskier jerked, narrowly avoiding pouring yeast all over the counter. “What?”

“The witcher.”

_Oh. Well._

“I… guess so, yeah.” He grimaced. “We didn’t end things well. Which… I’m glad I said what I did. But I wish I hadn’t had to.”

Lilia’s hand on the small of his back was warm and grounding. She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek. “That’s okay, darling. Sometimes we just have to do what we can. That’s all.”

Jaskier gazed at her reverently, feeling wholly and completely incapable of deserving and loving someone like her. The corners of her mouth tipped up, like she knew exactly what he was thinking. Knowing her, Jaskier thought, she probably did.

“I love you,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup her cheek, the other resting on the curve of her belly, which only continued to swell with each passing day. “More than you could ever know.”

“Trust me, Dandelion,” she smirked, and he shook his head through a laugh, once again regretting telling her what his chosen name meant. “I know. I know.”

And the thing was? He believed her.

More seasons passed. Netta became capable of running the entire bakery almost on her own, save for the financial side of things. A new family moved in down the street, and their daughter instantly captured the girl’s heart. 

Lilia’s belly grew and the unborn baby inside grew with it. She and Jaskier converted an empty room into a nursery, buying a bassinette and a rocking chair to fill the space. Both learned how to knit, just so they could both make several sizes of blankets for the baby, arguing over who was the better knitter and whose blanket the infant would like best.

Jaskier said it so often he was afraid it would lose all meaning.

But this really was the happiest he had ever been.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alexa, play "welly boots" by the amazing devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tags come into play in this chapter. everything's pretty vague, but this is just a warning in case you want it.

Spring found Jaskier and Netta alone with an infant. 

Lilia had talked him off the ledge of naming the child Echinacea because “That’s cruel, Jaskier, come on,” and he’d conceded.  _ Daisy _ , they decided on, at Lilia’s request, mostly as a joke to mock Jaskier for his own chosen name, but he liked it. 

“Daisy and Dandelion, together against the world,” she had whispered with her final breath. Jaskier had agreed. 

There was nothing else he could have done.

Spring found Jaskier and Netta alone with an infant, and a day later, so did Yennefer.

He had sent for her in the week before Daisy’s birth, not forgetting the promise he’d made what felt like so long ago. Luckily, she’d been nearby, so when the message had reached her, she’d immediately portalled to them. 

Jaskier greeted her with a weak smile and tears in his eyes, and Yennefer did the least Yennefer-esque thing she could have possibly done. 

She wrapped him in a hug and cried along with him. 

The bakery and the house had more light with Yennefer in them, which spoke more to the sorry state they had been in after Lilia’s death than anything else.

The mage didn’t appear as though she’d have the most maternal air to her, but in all those years of searching for a cure for her lack of womb, she’d picked up a few tricks. She and Jaskier agreed not to use magic directly on the baby; she was too young and fragile to risk any negative side effects of it. As it was, though, Tenby had no wet nurse, so they resorted to buying two goats, Rosemary and her kid, Basil, and enchanting the milk for baby Daisy to drink, to supplement what Lilia could no longer give.

Netta dedicated most of her time to running the bakery, her girlfriend, Kara, lending a hand when needed. 

Jaskier moved into the empty bedroom that shared a wall with the nursery and did his best to keep himself afloat. 

Daisy needed her father. 

Yennefer stayed constant beside him and pretended not to notice when he cried.

Before Lilia had died, she had told Jaskier about Tenby’s resident deity. 

Her name was Hestia. Goddess of home and hearth.

She belonged to a religion and culture that no longer reigned over the continent, but the villagers of Tenby had always regarded her as their protector, embodiment of everything the village and its people stood for. Few in Tenby actively practiced religion and those who did often kept to themselves, but everyone knew of Hestia. 

Hestia tended the fire. Under her watch, it never grew dark or cold. Just like Tenby.

After Lilia died, Jaskier couldn’t help but question Hestia’s power. He’d never been one for worship, but he did believe in something greater than him. So he’d prayed.

And now, when Daisy laughed, Jaskier could swear that the fire burned a little bit brighter.

He hoped that somewhere, somehow, Lilia was watching. He hoped she was at peace.

One day, Yen and Jaskier were lying in bed together in Jaskier’s new room, on their backs on top of the covers. Baby Daisy lay swaddled between them, her rapidly shrinking bassinette abandoned at the foot of the bed. Jaskier was exhausted and close to passing out from it and Daisy had just finished eating and was now napping. Yennefer had offered no explanation for why she had joined them, but Jaskier suspected she savored the bits of calm they scavenged just as much as he. 

Jaskier sighed heavily at the ceiling. His bones whispered that, perhaps, they might enjoy returning to the dirt from which they had sprung. He ignored them. 

Yen turned her head toward him. 

“Mm?”

“Hrgh,” he responded.

She nodded, appearing satisfied with that answer. She glanced at the sleeping baby. Daisy may not have been hers by blood, but Yen had made it clear she no longer cared about that. Daisy’s mother had been taken from her, and lucky for Jaskier, Yennefer was more than willing to play the role when needed. Although, they both had to admit, being covered in spit-up and vomit on a near-constant basis was growing old. 

A small snore-like noise escaped the baby’s face and a beat later Yen chuckled, seemingly more at herself than Daisy. Jaskier made a questioning grunt.

“Do you know what a shark is, Jaskier?”

“...Shark.” Jaskier rolled the word around on his tongue, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “They’re like big fish, right?”

“In a way. Have you ever been to the coast?”

The offhand comment made Jaskier’s stomach tighten, but he answered anyway. “I grew up near there. Haven’t been back in a long time.”

She nodded. “Perhaps we should go someday. When Daisy is older.” 

Jaskier swallowed the lump in his throat. The thought of Daisy being anything other than a squishy pile of joy and mischief terrified him. And the thought of going home… well. He supposed they didn’t  _ have _ to go to Lettenhove. There were other parts of the coast to visit. Other places to go. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.”

“Well, in the deep parts of the ocean, there are these creatures called sharks. And they have fins and tails to help them swim in the water, and some of them have rows upon rows upon rows of teeth. A throat full of teeth, can you picture that, Jaskier?”

Confused silence. Then-

“Are you still mad at Daisy for biting you? You know she’s teething, she can’t help it, Yen.” 

Yen laughed, quiet, for Daisy’s benefit, but warm and real. Not a laugh Jaskier could usually evoke from her. “Perhaps. But it’s not just that. She just… reminds me of one. For other reasons.”

Jaskier hummed, not disagreeing but still not quite understanding.

“She’s not even a year old, Jaskier. And she’s so strong. Even you can sense it, right? She’s got a fighter’s spirit and soul.”

He smiled toward the sky, then turned his head to gaze at his baby girl. “Yeah. She does.”

He caught Yen’s eyes over the child. The mage looked truly at peace, for once in her life content. Satiated. 

“I bet she’s got a whole throat full of teeth,” Yen whispered, a lazy smile spreading across her lips. She rolled her head to face the ceiling again and the gentle candlelight caught on her dark hair. “Just like her father.”

Jaskier swallowed and blamed his stinging eyes on the fact that he hadn’t had a full night of sleep since Daisy was born. 

That was the nicest thing Yennefer had ever said to him, and she still managed to make it sound like an insult.

He looked away from her toward the wood above them again. If a tear managed to slip down his cheek despite the sappy smile on his face, well, no one said a word of it. 

It took Jaskier a long time to pick up Filavandrel’s lute again. 

In the end, he did it as a last-ditch attempt to lull Daisy sleep after what felt like hours of crying. Lilia had requested he play for her before the child had been born because she’d wanted Daisy to be a musical child. 

“She’s mine,” Jaskier had scoffed, “of course she will be.”

Nevertheless, he'd done as she asked almost every night until the baby was born.

Now, he didn’t know what to do.

So he sat on the floor beside her bassinette and played the song he had written just before Lilia had discovered she was with child. The one he had written for her.

_ It's what my heart just yearns to say _

_ In ways that can't be said _

_ It's what my rotting bones will sing _

_ When the rest of me is dead _

_ It's what's engraved upon my heart _

_ In letters deeply worn _

_ Today I somehow understand the reason I was born _

Daisy cooed. She knew this song. 

_ ‘Cause outwardly he says “I try so hard to make you laugh at me” _

_ And she, she does, _

_ She laughs as though she’s not heard the joke ten thousand times before _

_ And he adores her, _

_ He watches her get dressed  _

_ As though she's hurtling through time _

_ “Oh, darling, please be mine” _

Jaskier cleared his throat. It wouldn’t help matters to cry in the first minute of the song. He sniffed and hoped she didn’t notice.

He managed to make it to the chorus.

_ It's not fair, it's not fair how much I love you _

_ It's not fair, _

_ ‘Cause you make me laugh  _

_ When I'm actually really fucking cross at you for something _

_ And he'll say _

_ Oh how, oh how unreasonable _

_ How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do _

_ I'll spend my days so close to you ‘cause  _

_ If I'm s _ _ tanding here maybe everyone will think I'm alright _

Daisy was fast asleep, the blanket Lilia had knitted for her tucked beneath her chin. Tears dribbled down Jaskier’s face.

He set the lute down in its case along the wall and crawled back into bed. He only had a couple of hours until dawn, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to squander them.

He woke with salt-crusted cheeks. 

Scrubbing his face clean was a thoughtless, practiced action.

Jaskier was used to talking a lot and saying nothing at all. It was a practiced defense mechanism from all those seasons he’d spent in court, and he found it helped, to fill the new silence with meaningless chatter. Geralt had hated the tactic, but it emptied Jaskier’s roaring mind.

He learned how to smile again for Daisy.

For Daisy, it felt like he never forgot.

He talked to her endlessly, about everything and nothing. On good days, he told her about her mother, about the curly hair and strong grip they shared, about how she could make anyone laugh, how she had held her heart close, protected, and loved as fiercely as she fought. On bad days, he described to her the process of baking bread, how the yeast and sugar react to create bubbles, how the flowers grow and the sky darkens and the sun sets every night.

On days in between, he told her about himself. Not about his various conquests or hunts with Geralt, Melitele forbid, but about his childhood on the coast, loud sisters, sand, and waves. A distant father he vowed to never become.

Daisy absorbed it all. Only just beginning to crawl, she watched him intently, clinging to his every word. 

She smiled at Jaskier with Lilia’s eyes.

He learned to remember the good things in life. The infant in his arms was one. 

Jaskier often dreamed of Lilia. He dreamed of her hair, her smile, her touch, her laugh… of everything he loved about her.

He also dreamed of her death.

On nights like those, he woke up in a cold sweat. He took to keeping a bucket by his bed after throwing up on himself and the bedroom floor too many times to count. He still vomited on himself and the floor, but less so. He accepted minor victories. He held on to enough confidence in his own identity to do that.

Yennefer had woken the first few times it had happened, rushing into Jaskier’s room, brushing his hair back and holding him up when his arms no longer could. He’d ruined some of her nightgowns that way, a fact for which Yennefer never let him apologize.

He’d even woken Netta a couple of times, though her room was the farthest from his. She brought him mint leaves to chew on, to cleanse his mouth and settle his stomach.

But somehow, by some miracle, he never woke Daisy. If he was feeling desperate enough, he prayed to Hestia to thank her for that. 

Most of the time, though, he simply pulled himself back into bed with trembling arms, wishing the dream would leave him.

In real life, Lilia’s death had been more or less peaceful. The birth and after-birth, not so much, and despite everything Saphia had given her, she’d continued bleeding well after Daisy had been cleaned and swaddled in Jaskier’s arms. Jaskier had heard the words “hemorrhage” and “internal bleeding” come from Saphia’s mouth, but by that point, he’d already known what was going to happen.

Lilia had known, too.

So she had taken the pain drought Saphia handed to her, and held the baby’s tiny hand with one finger, pushing through the tears. Made Jaskier promise to name the baby “Daisy,” not “Echinacea.” Reminded him she loved him. Told Daisy she loved her. Closed her eyes, and exhaled.

In Jaskier’s dreams, she died in all sorts of ways. He could never save her. 

Along with the bucket, Jaskier kept a skin of water beside his bed to rinse his mouth right after. It was a good thing, too: at the rate this was going, Jaskier would be lucky to still have teeth by the time he turned fifty-five.

Jaskier learned to get along. Yennefer and Netta and Daisy helped. 

By the time spring came along, he could breathe again. Daisy’s birthday and the anniversary of Lilia’s death came and went, breaking his heart and forming it all over again. Yen popped out to visit the rest of the world every now and then, bringing news of her fellow mages, kingdoms fallen and risen, of the tide and what it brought and what it took away.

Ciri was almost twenty now, Jaskier learned, and a talented witcher to boot. Yennefer said nothing of Geralt except that he hadn’t changed save for a shadow under his eyes and a handful of new scars, but that was to be expected. Triss Marigold had been staying with them, to train Ciri in her magic. Yennefer had smiled fondly at the thought of her old friend. 

Jaskier had only nodded and begun a new loaf of bread.

Daisy’s first word was, “No!”

It had been in response to the question, “Daisy, can you say ‘dada?’” a common sentence at dinner that Daisy was apparently fed up with. 

Daisy’s first sentence followed within the minute, with a resounding, “No, Dada!” from Daisy, and a spoonful of roast carrot splattering on the floor behind Jaskier. The fire roared a little louder to match her yell.

Yennefer and Netta nearly peed themselves laughing and Jaskier sulked for the rest of the meal. 

(He was proud, though. He didn’t know what he would have done if she hadn't said his name first. The girls never would have let him live it down.)

Daisy’s third, fourth, fifth, and sixth words, respectively, were “Yen,” “Netty,” “uh, oh,” and “boom boom.” She was a very poopy baby, and quite fond of disaster.

Whenever a disaster occurred, Yennefer turned to Jaskier and said, deadpan, “She really is your child.”

Jaskier would gasp dramatically, but he never meant it. He knew Daisy was his, and he couldn’t be more in love with her.

According to Saphia, who occasionally came to visit Daisy for check-ups, the child should be sleeping in her own room now that she was over a year old. Jaskier was hesitant, unwilling to let Daisy out of his sight unless she was with someone else he trusted. Saphia assured him that it was normal for children to move into their own spaces and that she would be perfectly fine. 

Yennefer had been uncharacteristically absent for that conversation, but she agreed with the medic when Jaskier mentioned it to her later that day. Later that week, she helped Jaskier move the baby and her crib back into the designated nursery. 

Jaskier mourned over the new emptiness of his room. Daisy decided she didn’t want to be alone any more than Jaskier wanted her to. 

The rest of the house sighed and bid goodbye to a full night of sleep for the next several weeks.

Tenby collected the lost. At this point, Jaskier simply accepted that as a fact. 

So it only made sense that someday, Geralt would show up.

And it just so happened that “someday” would be today.

The bell above the door of the shop rang, just barely audible over the roaring fires of the oven. Netta was at the front desk, though, so Jaskier ignored it. That is, of course, until Netta popped her head through the kitchen door and half-yelled: “There’s a witcher here for you?”

Jaskier straightened.  _ A witcher?  _

_ Geralt, _ his treacherous little brain whispered, and he shrugged it off. He had no reason to believe it was Geralt. After all, they'd essentially cut each other out of their lives. Why would it be?

His hands were covered in dough and he was pretty sure he had flour in his hair. He cleared his throat. “Oh. Bring him to my office. I’ll be right out.” 

Netta nodded and disappeared.

He took the apron off. Knowing the situations witchers got themselves into, he’d be risking getting it dirty if he wore it out. He grabbed a hand towel to try and clean himself off. 

Geralt stood in the office in the back of the bakery, looking clean and more unsure of himself than Jaskier may have ever seen him. His armor was no more ripped or damaged than it ever was, but the slight discoloration of his right hand revealed a healing wound. He'd grown a beard. It was nice. 

The witcher turned when the bard appeared in the door, yellow eyes lingering on the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt and what Jaskier assumed was the streak of flour in his hair. 

_ Of course. _

Unease settled deep in Jaskier’s chest, but he pushed it down. There was no reason to be nervous. They were just two old friends reuniting. If “friends” was still an accurate identifier for them.

If.

“Geralt,” Jaskier made himself say.

“Jaskier,” the witcher greeted back. It was almost a whisper.

“How did you find me?”

Geralt shook his head faintly. He looked… scared. He looked  _ terrified. _ Jaskier hated it. “I didn’t mean to. I just walked in and… smelled you.”

_ Tenby collects the lost _ , Lilia’s voice whispered in the back of his skull. Jaskier sighed resignedly despite the tightness of his chest and made up his mind.

“Come here.”

Geralt let himself be gathered up in a hug. Their first in years. Perhaps their first proper one ever. 

The witcher melted, face buried into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier rubbed his hands along Geralt’s back. He smelled of dirt and sweat and the wind. With a hint of onion. Jaskier stifled a smile. 

He wasn’t sure if he completely forgave Geralt. But it had been so long, that, if he was honest, it no longer bothered him much. Sure, the thought of Geralt’s words could make his stomach twist, but it was an old ache, a familiar one, like the twinge of a bad knee that only speaks up every so often, just to make sure you know you’re still alive.

And Jaskier was alive, damn it. He’d been through hell but he was on his way back. 

Perhaps he could afford a little forgiveness. 

After what felt like ages and no time at all, Geralt pulled back. He kept his calloused hands on Jaskier’s waist. “I’m. Sorry. For what I said on the mountain and later when I tried to pretend everything was okay.”

One side of Jaskier’s mouth tipped up. “I’m sorry, too. For some of the things I said in Schwarnick.”

“You were right.”

“Yes. But I didn’t have to say them like that,” Jaskier conceded. 

Something in Geralt’s eyes shone like relief. 

“Well, then,” Jaskier stepped back clapped his hands. “Are you hungry? Because we have this absolutely  _ phenomenal  _ sweet bread, you just have to try it, it’s made with this fruit that Yennefer brought back from somewhere, called a  _ banana _ , and it’s-”

Geralt stiffened. “Yennefer’s here?”

_ Oh. Right. _

“Yeah,” Jaskier said, deciding to just address it all head-on. “She’s with Daisy.”

“Daisy?”

“My baby.”

Geralt swallowed minutely. “Your baby?”

Jaskier nodded, guilt trickling into his gut. “Yeah. My baby.”

“Mm.” Geralt seemed to be breathing, but if Jaskier didn’t know him so well, he might have believed he wasn’t. 

“Would you…” Jaskier trailed off. He wasn’t sure what was going on in Geralt’s head, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t great. “Would you like to meet her? It’s okay, if not, I just figured, you know, that-”

Geralt mustered a smile. “I’d love to.” 

He wasn’t lying. Just still… shocked.

Jaskier nodded again. “Okay. Great, uh, let me grab you some of the sweet bread, and then we’ll go visit, alright?”

The witcher nodded. He followed Jaskier back to the front lobby of the bakery, a small smile resting at his lips while he listened to Jaskier babble about all the different kinds of sweet bread. Netta tossed Geralt a loaf of the bread wrapped in paper, still warm, and he caught it with gratitude. 

“Oh,” Jaskier paused, mid-complaint about the texture of blueberries, “Geralt, this is Netta, and Netta this is Geralt. I traveled with Geralt for a long time before I came here and Netta is…” he trailed off, squinting at her. “Uh.”

Netta laughed. “Finally going senile, Jaskier?”

“What, no, I-” Jaskier spluttered. “I don’t know, just saying you work for me feels… inaccurate.” 

Netta rolled her eyes and turned to Geralt. “I started here almost three years ago and also I live with him as a strange kind of surrogate niece because my parents think that I am a threat to society and everything it stands for.” She stretched out her arms, sharp smile on her lips. “So now I’m here.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Netta,” Geralt rumbled, amused. 

“Yes. It is.”

Geralt barked a surprised laugh and Jaskier groaned. 

“Why are you like this?”

Netta winked at him, all sharp cheekbones and wicked eyes. “I’m a delight.”

Geralt looked inclined to agree. 

After letting Netta know he was taking the rest of the day off, Jaskier led Geralt and Roach around the building to the back of the old house, so the mare could stay with the goats and Bumble in the stable. Rosemary and Roach regarded each other with suspicion before Basil, now almost full-grown, butted Roach’s shin with his head and bleated plaintively. Roach huffed what might have been a laugh, and Geralt echoed the sound. Bumble ignored them all. 

Before they entered the house, Jaskier asked Geralt to stay at the front door for a moment. He figured he owed Yen a bit of a heads up before bringing the witcher into the house.

As it was, Yennefer already knew. 

She and Daisy sat on the floor of the house kitchen, one in an elegant dress, and the other in a rumpled nappy, a mess of colored felt blocks before them. Yen had bought them as a gift for Daisy’s one year birthday, but where she found them, Jaskier had no idea. 

“So,” she said, not looking up from the tower she was trying to build before Daisy decimated it. “Geralt?”

“Mm,” Jaskier sighed, crouching down to answer Daisy’s insistent grabby hands. He put his face in her hands and let her babble at him. “Hello, shark. How are you today?”

“She’s shit three times since breakfast. Hasn’t had lunch yet,” Yen grumbled. “What do you think?”

Jaskier chuckled, gently removing Daisy’s hand before she wrapped her chubby fist around his entire eyeball. “That good, huh?”

“Yes. That good.” Yen glanced up from her felt block tower. “Are you going to make Geralt stand on the front step until he rots?”

“I guess not,” Jaskier shook his head. “What do you think, Daisy?” 

Daisy sneezed, snot spraying his entire face. Because why not.

“Alright,” Jaskier groaned, wiping his face with his sleeve. He picked her up and balanced her on his hip, ignoring her incessant babbling. “Let’s go then.”

Yen stared at her tower mournfully but followed him to the door anyway. 

They were an odd picture, the three of them. 

Jaskier, in a plain tunic with flour still in his hair, Yennefer, looming protectively behind him in one of her overly elegant gowns, and baby Daisy, pressed against Jaskier’s chest, with tight curls and tan skin that she clearly did not inherit from her father. 

She kept trying to fit her fist in her mouth, and when Jaskier removed it, she tried to put it in his. He gave up.

Geralt blinked, eyes darting between Yennefer and Jaskier and Daisy and Daisy and Jaskier and Yennefer and back again. 

Jaskier bounced the baby on his hip.

“Daisy, darling, can you say hi? Say hi to Geralt?” 

Daisy tucked her head in Jaskier’s neck, shyly. He pressed a kiss to her temple. 

“Come on, shark, say hi to Geralt.”

She peeked at Geralt and hid again before just facing him and whispering something that sounded vaguely like “Hi Gerlat.” If one was desperate enough.

Geralt watched Daisy, lips parted and eyes wide, like she was explaining the secrets of the universe to him. 

“Hi Daisy,” he murmured back.

She giggled and hid against her father’s chest. 

Something surged within Jaskier, but whether it was pride for his daughter or heartbreak for Geralt, he didn’t know.

Regardless, he opened the door all the way and stepped aside. “Come in.” 

Geralt cautiously stepped inside, yellow eyes wide and scanning every inch of the house. It had been built by another family, which had been much larger than Jaskier’s current one. Lilia had told him that Tenby used to have some incredibly wealthy residents, but not all of them stayed here. The lost came to Tenby, but sometimes they found what they were looking for and left. 

And when they left, the house was open for anyone to take. Jaskier had shown up and Lilia needed more room, so they had claimed it.

The house wasn’t lavishly decorated or furnished, as Lilia hadn’t been one for design, so Jaskier had taken advantage of what comforts they could have. The front door opened up into a sitting room with a soft couch facing the large windows and a small table. A hallway led through it and to the kitchen and dining room, which had a large table liked with benches and access to the outdoors. A staircase to the right of the dining table went upstairs, where everyone’s rooms were.

Jaskier carried Daisy to the kitchen, where he set her back down on the floor with her blocks. She promptly knocked over Yennefer’s tower and giggled.

Geralt and Yennefer followed Jaskier into the kitchen. Jaskier heard Geralt murmur, “Hello to you, too, Yennefer.”

Yennefer laughed. “Everyone only ever has eyes for the shark. I’m used to it.”

Jaskier felt himself smile unwittingly. 

He took a loaf of bread off of the kitchen counter and began cutting into it. Yennefer and Geralt sat at the table behind him. 

“So,” Yennefer said, “what brings you to Tenby, Geralt?”

There was a pause. “I’m not sure.”

Jaskier walked over and set the plate of bread before them, leaning down to hand Daisy a small bite, which she crammed into her mouth. Yennefer immediately reached out for a piece. “Tenby collects the lost.”

Geralt cocked his head, white hair barely responding to the movement. Perhaps he wasn't as clean as Jaskier had previously thought. “What?”

“It’s something that Lilia told me,” Jaskier said on a reflex. Her name sparked an ache in his chest, but he swallowed it down. “We’re far enough out of the way of all bigger villages that no one comes here except by accident. Most don’t even know it’s here.”

Geralt nodded, hesitant. “Who’s Lilia?”

“She was Daisy’s mother.” Jaskier sat down at the table and took a slice of bread, shoving it in his mouth as if that could protect him from the thought of her. Daisy made an inquisitive noise at her own name and Jaskier passed another piece. 

The witcher took note of the past tense and didn’t ask any more questions.

“How long do you plan to be here?” Yennefer asked.

“I… don’t know.” Geralt slowly took a bite of bread. His eyebrows raised marginally as he chewed. “This is good.”

Pride blossomed within Jaskier. His chuckle came out forced, but smooth. “It’s zucchini. Yen’s favorite.”

If Geralt was shocked by Jaskier’s casual use of Yennefer’s nickname or his knowledge of her favorite type of bread, he didn’t show it. “Zucchini?”

“A type of squash I found while traveling south of here.” She took another slice. “I go there specifically to buy them.” 

“You have a problem,” Jaskier scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“They’re misunderstood!” Yen shot back.

Jaskier snorted. “Just because you identify with a vegetable doesn’t mean you have to be obsessed with it, Yennefer. You can have other personality traits, you know.”

“What would you know about that? Your only trait is being insufferable," she snarled. There was genuine annoyance in the comment, but no heat. "You’re a one-trick pony, bard. You should consider yourself lucky that I tolerate as much as I do.”

Jaskier pelted her with a chunk of bread and shook his head. He did consider himself lucky. But he’d never say it.

Geralt stopped chewing and glanced back and forth between them. Yennefer noticed his concern and rolled violet eyes. “You’ve been gone too long, Geralt.”

He swallowed. “Apparently. Since when have you two been friends?”

Jaskier shifted on the bench, trying to pretend like this wasn’t weird for him too. “Since Yennefer showed up in the bakery and passed out on the floor.”

Geralt’s confusion only grew. 

“Almost three years,” Yen supplied. The witcher hummed.

“We have an extra room where you can stay for now,” Jaskier found himself offering. _Wait, hold on-_ “If you want it.”

The yellow eyes that locked on to his were far more grateful than they had any right to be, and the voice in his head threatened to wail. “I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

The bard nodded, somehow managing to mute the cacophony of thoughts in his head. “Great. When you’re ready, then, I can show you to your room.” 

Geralt’s little smile calmed him somewhat. 

Yennefer’s raised eyebrow did not.

“You invited him to  _ stay _ with us?”

Geralt was in the bathroom, his swords and armor discarded carefully on the floor of his new room. Yennefer shot them a distasteful glance before rounding on Jaskier. 

“He does have enhanced hearing,” Jaskier reminded. Helpfully.

Yen rolled her eyes “I would win that fight; I’m not worried about him hearing me. What I am worried about, is you.”

“I don’t know, if he took enough potions he might stand a chance,” Jaskier mused. 

She ignored the deflection. “Jaskier.”

“What.”

“In all the time that I have been in Tenby, both before Daisy was born and after, I have never heard you willingly talk about Geralt. Netta knows that he exists only because your little ‘Toss A Coin’ song is so popular.” She put her hands on her hips. “Why did you invite him to live with us?”

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek. He’d been wondering the same thing. “He’s not living with us, just… staying here until he gets bored and decides to leave.”

Yennefer scoffed.

“What?”

She tilted her head to the side. “Do you really think he’d give you up that easily again?”

His eyebrows merged into one. “What?”

“I’m not… no.” Yen shook her head. “I am not having that conversation with you.”

“What conversation?” Jaskier had never been more confused.

Yen physically took his shoulders to turn him around and guide him out of the room. “Go… help Netta close up the bakery or do something else useful. Daisy’s napping, I’ll take care of her.”

“Yennefer-” Jaskier squawked. She shoved him, not gently, but not enough to fall either.

_ “Go.” _

Jaskier went. When he and Netta came back, Geralt’s hair was wet and he was chopping up onions while Yennefer barked orders at him, Daisy propped up on one hip. The witcher shot him an alarmed look before returning to his onions at Yennefer’s snap. Netta burst out laughing.

Years ago, this scene would have Jaskier’s skin burn with jealousy. Now, there was still jealousy, pinpricks of it, but the overwhelming emotion was… contentment. 

Jaskier hadn’t felt truly content since Lilia died, and this wasn’t it.

But perhaps it was a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the song jaskier sings to daisy is "fair" by the amazing devil, which, if you haven't listened to it, you absolutely should because it ruins me. in a good way, of course.  
> also, yes, sliced bread was widely accepted and adopted in this universe by the 13th century. sue me.  
> anyway! i wasn't going to post today but because this fic was a draft i created a month ago the dates got messed up and kinda buried it, so here we are.  
> come say hi on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) or leave a comment if you feel so inclined :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil vomit mention at the end of this chap, just as a forewarning

It was a week into Geralt’s stay in Tenby. Daisy had been crying for the better part of an hour, and Jaskier was ready to run flying out of the window. 

He loved his daughter, he really did, but she was just. So loud. It grated on all of Jaskier’s nerves, and he was sure the rest of Tenby agreed. 

Yennefer had tried to tell him that she was old enough he had to let her cry herself out. But Jaskier knew himself and his own stamina, and if this baby was anything like him, she’d hold out for the next hour before she even started to strain herself.

The bard cursed under his breath and grabbed his lute, heading toward Daisy’s room.

“Hello, little shark,” he greeted her. He sat down in the chair beside her crib. Standing, hands on the railing, she stared out at him, desolate. “What’s new with you?”

Her bottom lip quivered and she let out another wail. 

“Alright, then,” Jaskier arranged his fingers on the frets of the lute. “You’ve given no choice. I shall have to do it.”

Daisy hiccupped but quieted. He smiled at her and began to play. 

_Hello, dear heart_

_Stop your crying_

_I know you’re scared_

_But I promise you’re not dying_

_I’ll hold the world back_

_In the hopes you might_

_Just sleep tonight_

Daisy furrowed her brows slightly. She knew this was targeted at her. Somehow.

Jaskier smirked.

_Oh, you’re okay_

_All these fears you have for tomorrow_

_Might never see the light of day_

_And that’s alright_

_Because I’ll be here to hold you tight_

Daisy sat down heavily and made a grumbling noise.

_The shadows, darling, are not fears_

_But friends, they’ll follow you and dry your tears_

_And when you say you feel you’re alone_

_Reach inside and find that piece of home where I say_

Jaskier paused and raised his eyebrows at Daisy. She had laid down to watch him, blinking slowly in the way that babies do moments before they fall asleep.

_Hello, dear heart_

_Stop your crying_

_I know you’re scared_

_But I promise you’re not dying_

_I’ll hold the world back_

_In the hopes you might_

_Just sleep tonight_

Her breathing evened out. Jaskier sighed. He had no idea how that song even worked, but he was grateful he could save the rest for later. 

Geralt cleared his throat from the doorway, and Jaskier almost fell out of the chair.

“Geralt!” He hissed. “You can’t do that!”

The witcher had the decency to look a little guilty. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Jaskier glanced at the baby to make sure she was still sleeping. Satisfied with what he found, Jaskier shooed Geralt out of the room and closed the door behind both of them. Once it was shut he grimaced.

“Did she wake you up?”

Geralt shrugged. “I was already up.”

The rest of the house was silent. 

“Why?”

Geralt shrugged again. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes and herded Geralt to the kitchen. 

Once there, he heated a small pot of water for tea. Geralt leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and quietly observed Jaskier until the tea had steeped. 

It was domestic. And calm.

Jaskier didn’t mind it. 

“I liked the song,” Geralt said, mug between both hands.

Jaskier almost poured hot tea all over himself. “What?”

Geralt tilted his head to the side. “I liked the song. Why does that surprise you?”

“Geralt, you have said many things about my music, but a casual ‘I liked it’ has never been one of them.”

“Ah.” A pause. “Well. I did.”

Jaskier snorted incredulously. “What makes this one so different then, so I know how to replicate it?”

The witcher took a careful sip of tea. “I think… it’s not about me.”

This took Jaskier by surprise. “The song?”

“Yes,” Geralt nodded. “It’s about Daisy. _To_ Daisy. I think it’s sweet.”

“Oh, well, then,” Jaskier set down his mug and pulled a knife from the cutting block. “You like the song _and_ you think I’m sweet?” He pointed the knife at Geralt’s nose. “Who are you and what have you done with Geralt?”

The other man didn’t budge. The corners of his lips tilted up. “I said the song was sweet. I never said anything about you.” He glanced at the blade and his eyes glinted dangerously.

“Ah,” Jaskier put the knife back, suddenly very aware that he and Geralt were alone in the kitchen. He swallowed. “Nevermind. It is you.”

Geralt nodded, as if to say, _Of course, it is. It always was._

They drank their tea in silence for a moment before Jaskier spoke up.

“So that’s really why you always made such a fuss about my songs? Not because they were embellished, but because they were about you?”

Geralt hummed. The bard waited for a real response.

“I don’t know.”

Jaskier kept waiting. Geralt rolled his eyes and shifted against the counter. “I wasn’t… I’m still not. Used to hearing myself sung about like I’m… a hero. And perhaps that made me uncomfortable.”

“Perhaps?” Jaskier echoed.

Geralt grunted.

“You are a hero, though,” Jaskier said, gently. “To all those people. You saved them more pain and heartbreak, even if it didn’t happen exactly like it did in the song.” 

“I’m just doing my job. That doesn’t make me a hero.”

“Not to you, no. But to them… it means more than you think.”

Geralt hid behind his mug of tea. Jaskier noticed and elected to take mercy on him.

“Besides, they’re some _banger_ tunes, you have to admit.”

Geralt snorted. “Do I?”

“Yes!” Jaskier exclaimed, before remembering how late it was and lowering his voice. “It was wonderful songwriting inspiration for me. Most lucrative years of my life.” He sighed wistfully. 

“Have you written much since?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier tapped his fingers on his mug. “When I have time, yes. Wrote a few for Lilia, before…” He cleared his throat. “Um. Yeah. Before.”

When he looked up, he found yellow eyes on his, unbearably soft. 

“What happened to her?”

“Uh.” Jaskier shifted on his feet. Besides Yennefer, he’d never actually had to tell anyone yet. Everyone else had already known. Word traveled fast in a little town like Tenby. 

Geralt frowned guiltily. “You don’t have to say-” 

“During childbirth.” Jaskier cut him off, words stumbling over themselves. “She kept bleeding. Hemorrhage, I think, is what the medic said.” 

He felt lighter, but like he’d been kicked in the stomach. His fingers tightened around the mug. 

A foot brushed against his and Jaskier looked up to see Geralt had scooted closer, not invading, just reminding him that he was there. 

“I’m sorry.” The witcher’s voice was so quiet.

“Yeah, well.” Jaskier blinked tears away, grounding himself through Geralt’s presence. “It happens.”

They stayed like that, silent, barely touching, until the sun began to rise. 

It was going to be a tired day. But it just might be a good one.

Geralt began a garden behind the house. Jaskier and Lilia had tried once, but eventually, Lilia had become too pregnant and Jaskier was too busy helping with her and everyone else to do it himself.

As it was, the only “monsters” in Tenby were a handful of elves there for asylum and Geralt himself (none of whom Jaskier considered monsters), so Geralt decided to begin a garden.

Geralt hadn’t gardened since Kaer Morhen. Never had the inclination, he said.

Jaskier believed it was because he’d never stayed in one place long enough to do it, but he kept that to himself.

Though the garden was birthed in early summer, Geralt was apparently knowledgeable enough to know which crops he could still plant and be able to harvest something before winter came to kill them off. By the beginning of fall, the root vegetables and leafy greens were almost ready to harvest. Geralt was very proud. Jaskier was, too.

Daisy grew more and more with each passing day. Her mobility increased exponentially, and she soon began tottering around the house at terrifying speeds, chattering about whatever her little brain could handle. Sometimes, she lectured at Jaskier, a muddled volley of sounds thrown around with a few scattered “dada”s and “big no”s thrown in there. 

He once walked into the kitchen to find Geralt sitting at the table, chin resting on his hands, golden eyes soft as Daisy pulled at his hair and babbled incoherently. 

He wished he could have lived in that moment forever.

Yennefer’s escapades to the world outside Tenby didn’t slow down once Geralt joined their misshapen lump of a family. She came back from one visit visibly shaken and drained and had mumbled something about Tissaia before sleeping for two days. No one asked about it except Netta, who did so quietly and only shook her head at Jaskier when he later tried to bring it up.

Other times, she came back with a new fruit or vegetable she’d discovered. The Yennefer Jaskier had known ten years ago would have scoffed at current Yennefer’s interest in various foods but Jaskier knew that it was a good thing. This Yennefer was finally letting herself take enjoyment in little things, instead of flying off the handle to get what she wanted or suffocating in a contract with some royal family. Jaskier liked this Yennefer.

Most of the time, though, she returned to Tenby tired. And that was all.

On this particular autumn morning, incidentally a day when the bakery didn’t open until noon, she interrupted breakfast with a certain blond witcher in tow.

 _“Ciri?”_ Geralt dropped his fork onto the plate of eggs before him and almost toppled the bench leaping over it. Daisy, Netta, and Jaskier all watched with wide eyes as Cirilla _slammed_ into Geralt and the older witcher swayed back an inch at the impact. Yennefer chuckled from the entrance to the kitchen. 

“I brought a friend,” she said in response to Jaskier’s non-verbal, _What the fuck?_

Geralt’s arms tightened imperceptibly around Ciri.

“Hello, fend,” Daisy said. She then wiped repeatedly at the egg yolk smeared around her mouth with an equally dirty hand and made a frustrated whine at the lack of change. 

Cirilla’s head shot up from where it had been tucked into Geralt’s neck. Her lips parted slightly. “ _Melitele_ , she’s small.”

Netta snorted. Daisy narrowed her eyes at both women but eventually became more invested in her eggs than them. 

Jaskier stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. He’d met Ciri when she was younger and he’d sung for her birthday or various other court activities, but for whatever reason, he was suddenly nervous. 

He decided it was the massive sword on her back that he could see now that she had stepped back from Geralt. Nevermind that Geralt’s swords had never scared him. That was neither here nor there.

“Hello,” he said, slapping on a confident smile, “my name is Jaskier. Welcome to my, uh,” he looked from his baby and messy kitchen to Netta and Yennefer smirking at him, “home. Welcome to my home.”

Geralt’s pale cheeks pinkened slightly.

Cirilla raised an eyebrow. “Jaskier. Interesting.” Geralt shot her a look and she rolled her eyes. “I’m Ciri.”

“I don’t think I like the way you said that,” Jaskier made himself laugh. Acid bubbled in his stomach.

Netta enthusiastically swallowed a bite of breakfast. “I do.” She raised a hand to the princess. “I’m Netta.” She pointed at the baby smearing her breakfast all over the table. “And that’s Daisy.” 

Daisy tore her attention away from her masterpiece at the sound of her name. “Daisy?”

Jaskier chuckled, for real this time. “No, you’re a little shark who shouldn’t be trusted with egg anymore.” He took a cloth from the kitchen counter and attempted to begin cleaning her off. 

“Noooo!” Daisy screeched. She writhed to get away from his touch, but the seat Netta’s girlfriend (who was quite the skilled woodworker) had made for her held her captive. “No, Dada, no no no!”

Jaskier sighed and tossed the damp cloth onto the table before her. “Fine. You do it, then.”

Daisy stared at the cloth, face flushed and eyes spiteful before she picked up a corner of the cloth and daintily dabbed at her face with it. The egg yolk didn’t budge, but it was enough.

Netta had a hand over her mouth and Yennefer’s purple eyes danced with wicked delight. Geralt’s expression was one of pure adoration.

“I think I might want one,” Ciri whispered.

Geralt’s face morphed into that of abject horror. “No.”

“You can’t stop me, old man.”

“Ooookay!” Jaskier interrupted cheerfully before Geralt could grab a knife from the table and threaten the younger witcher with it. “Well, Ciri, it was lovely to see you. Will you be staying with us for a while?”

Green eyes grew wide. “May I?”

“Of course,” Jaskier nodded his head toward the staircase. “The room next to Geralt’s is still open if you want it.”

“That’d be lovely.” She inclined her head in thanks.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier clapped his hands, once again questioning how and why he kept collecting more housemates. He spun to face Daisy. “You. Bath.”

The baby lit up. “Baf?”

He chuckled, swinging her up and out of the chair. “Bath. Alright, then,” he propped Daisy up in his hip and waved at Ciri. “Geralt can show you to your room when you’re ready. There’s extra food for breakfast in the pantry if you’d like it. It was a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you as well,” she said, a single eyebrow raised bemusedly.

Jaskier winked at them all before taking Daisy upstairs before she could try to clean herself off on his own tunic. 

As the steps creaked under his feet, he saw Ciri poke Geralt’s under-eye out of his peripheral. 

“Your eyebags are almost gone,” she noted, bewildered. 

Geralt slapped her hand away and grunted.

Jaskier chuckled to himself. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.

And interesting, it was. 

Ciri, though a princess and a powerful mage and witcher, was still a bit younger than Netta, and quickly found herself in the role of “middle child.” As she had previously been an only child, Jaskier expected her to rebel against that, but she seemed more or less content. He suspected it was because she was so happy to finally have some company her age that she didn’t want to complain. 

Her one issue, though, was her mild fear of Daisy. Something about how small the child was deeply unsettled her, and while she would coo and play with Daisy if given the chance, it was rare that she would ever hold or touch her. Daisy seemed to understand and respect that, with the air of knight who knew he was too fat for his horse to carry him and didn’t want to burden the poor animal anyway. At least, that’s how Jaskier described it to Yennefer, who’d choked on her own spit and slapped him on the arm for daring to disrespect the baby like that. Jaskier stood by it. He thought he was hilarious.

Geralt was not sure of what role he played in the family dynamic. Netta had jokingly told him that since he was Ciri’s dad but had the awkward air of an uncle, he was a “funkle.” A father-uncle.

Jaskier had cried so hard at that. Geralt hadn’t known whether to join him or brood.

(He'd done both.)

Not long after Ciri arrived, however, Geralt did as Geralt does, and became restless. He wouldn't say it, but Jaskier could tell that days spent gardening and playing with Daisy and cooking with Yen and Netta were not enough. He and Ciri sparred sometimes, but even that couldn’t sate his pent up aggression. He was a witcher, after all.

“He needs to kill something,” Yennefer said, unprompted, a knife in one hand and a mutilated parsnip in the other. She’d never been one to mince words.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. He didn't need to ask who she was talking about. “So let him. No one’s keeping him here.”

Yennefer wrinkled her nose incredulously. 

“What? He can come back.”

She continued staring at him. 

“Yennefer,” Jaskier sighed, running a hand through his hair, “this is your home as much as mine; I’m not the sole patriarch or whatever bullshit title I’m supposed to have. I don’t care what Geralt does. That’s not up to me or anyone else.”

Incredulity became confusion. “You’d let him leave you again?”

Her blunt question poked at his heart with fingernails filed into points, but he shrugged. “If he wanted to. As I said, it’s not up to me.” 

Yennefer blinked at him before turning away, back to the stew she was making. “I don’t understand you, bard.” 

“Why not?”

“Do you ever wonder why I don’t visit Saphia anymore?”

Jaskier furrowed his brows. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I broke it off with her before I left the first time. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone before I came back. If I came back.” She paused, knife resting on a parsnip but not cutting in. “I didn’t want to leave her hoping for something I couldn’t promise. And when I did return it felt like it had been so long that I didn’t go back. It didn’t feel right.”

Jaskier opened his mouth in a silent, _Ah_.

“You knew at least some of this was happening, right?”

Jaskier closed his mouth. His teeth clacked against each other.

“ _Melitele,_ Jaskier, how _stupid_ -”

“No, alright,” he interrupted, palms exposed placatingly, “I knew you were fucking and haven’t seen each other in a while but I didn’t know about anything else. I… I didn’t realize there were feelings involved, I suppose, so that’s why I never thought anything of it.” He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry?”

Yennefer shook her head, exasperated. “I really don’t understand you.”

“You still haven’t elaborated on that,” he reminded her.

“I don’t know how you’re so content just… letting people walk in and out of your life again and again. Specifically Geralt.” She resumed chopping, then stopped. “You do this.”

Jaskier warily eyed the blade shoved into his hands. “Are we so sure about that?”

She threw three more parsnips in front of him. “You cut bread every damn day, and parsnips are no different. You cut yourself with a vegetable once. I’m tired. Do it.”

He sighed and proceeded to carefully slice the parsnip into perfect uniform pieces. Yennefer’s eye-rolling was nearly audible. 

“You were saying?” 

She leaned against the counter. “You and Geralt sometimes went years without seeing each other, even if you did part on good terms, and every time you reunited as close as ever. Even now, after whatever fight you two had, very little has changed besides the two of you.”

Jaskier cocked his head, considering it. “Don’t you mean ‘between?’”

“No,” Yennefer crossed her arms. “You’ve changed as people. You’re not the prat I hated when I saved you from that djinn all those years ago. You’ve matured.”

Jaskier winced at the memory. “I suppose not. But have you and Geralt not done the same?”

Yennefer hummed. “What Geralt and I did was mostly forced by the djinn’s magic and whatever baser animalistic tendencies we still have. We could have had something in another time and place, perhaps, but not now.” 

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “Gross.” 

“I consider us friends. But I don't know that I loved him. Not truly.” She didn’t seem… sad about it. Just factual.

A spark of triumph lit in Jaskier’s chest, but he quickly stomped it out. _Where the hell did that come from?_

“You did.”

Jaskier’s eyeballs almost popped out of his skull. _Gods, what_ is _it with Yen today?_

He turned to face her. “I did?”

“Do.” She corrected. “Still do.” 

“I _do_?” 

She rolled her violet eyes for what felt that the millionth time during this conversation alone. “As a friend.” She caught his gaze. “Unless-”

“No, you’re right, sorry, I was confused.” He cleared his throat. “Yep, you’re right, as a friend, my bad.” 

One of Yennefer’s perfect eyebrows crawled to her hairline. Jaskier ignored it.

“So what you’re saying is you don’t understand how I can be alright letting Geralt leave without knowing if he’ll come back because when you leave you don’t come back. Because no one’s ever _really_ come back for _you_.”

She clenched her jaw for a moment. “Yes.”

“Did you love Saphia?” 

Yennefer was quiet.

“Do you know?” Jaskier asked, not unkindly.

“No,” she said, voice strangled and strangely vulnerable. Her hands tapped meaningless rhythms into the counter.

He tried to smile at her, hoping he conveyed some kind of comfort. “Perhaps you should find out.” 

She pursed her lips. “Perhaps.”

The only sounds in the kitchen were the knife against parsnip and the cutting board and Yen’s fingers on the counter.

When she spoke again, all signs of vulnerability were masked. “How did you get used to it?”

Jaskier shrugged. “It was always part of the relationship. Spend the warm months together and go our separate ways for the winter. Sometimes longer.” He finished the parsnips and wiped the knife with a cloth. “I grew accustomed to it after a while. If he came back, good. If he didn’t… then I just hoped that someday he would.”

“That doesn’t sound… enjoyable.”

“No,” he agreed. “But sometimes being _with_ Geralt wasn’t enjoyable either. He does hunt monsters for a living, you know.” He grinned at her cheekily, trying to lighten the mood. “Or has all the chaos gone to your head, and you’ve forgotten that, too?”

“ _Gods_ , Jaskier,” she hit him on the arm. “Do you ever get tired of being an insufferable little rat bastard?”

Geralt barked a laugh, strolling into the kitchen with Ciri trailing behind him. “No, he doesn’t.”

Jaskier whirled around and pointed the knife at him. “I _will_ stab you, witcher.”

The witcher’s gold eyes glimmered.

“Oh, don’t threaten him with that,” Ciri groaned, sitting heavily at the table. “He’ll enjoy it too much.” 

Geralt glared at her, and she stuck out her tongue. Yennefer shook her head fondly. 

“Where are the other two?” Ciri asked.

“Daisy’s napping and Netta’s at the bakery, I believe. Lunch will be soon?” Jaskier glanced at Yen, who nodded. “Yes. Lunch will be soon.”

Geralt and Ciri produced grunting noises of affirmation. Jaskier and Yennefer glanced at each other with twin exasperated expressions. 

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier said, remembering how his conversation with Yennefer had begun. “Do you need to, ah,” he struggled for the words, “go out on a hunt?”

Geralt frowned. “Is that a euphemism?”

“No-” Jaskier coughed, caught off guard. “Definitely not.” He thought about it. “Well, I supposed if you wanted it to be-”

“Absolutely not,” Ciri interrupted, “I am still here.”

Yennefer snorted. Geralt frowned harder. 

“What I _meant_ ,” Jaskier glared at Ciri, who grinned toothily in response, “was that you’ve seemed a little pent up lately and it’s been months since you’ve gone on a hunt. Maybe you just need a little release-” _no, not that,_ “gods damn it.”

The older witcher smiled faintly. “No, I understand. I’m alright.”

“No.” This time it was Yennefer who picked up the knife and Geralt had the decency to appear resignedly wary of it. “You need to fight something other than Ciri. I’ll portal the two of you out somewhere, or just you, and let you take care of it. I do it often; it’s no issue.” 

Ciri appeared excited at the prospect of hunting with her surrogate father again, but Geralt grimaced. “I don’t know-”

“For Melitele’s sake Geralt, just agree so you can go and get it out of your system,” Yennefer waved the knife dramatically and Jaskier inched away. “It helps to manage some of the chaos; I promise you’ll feel better.”

“Can I,” Geralt looked at Jaskier, eyes questioning, “Can I come back?”

The question broke Jaskier’s heart. He buffered for a split second, reeling. “Yes, of course you can, Geralt. Tenby will always be home to you if you want it.”

Golden eyes widened slightly and Jaskier almost thought he looked… sad.

Ciri and Yennefer’s attention bounced between them.

The little voice in his head began chanting, _divert divert divert divert di-_

Jaskier threw his hands in the air, slipping into an exasperated mask. “Why does everyone keep asking _me_ these things, anyway? Gods, you’d think I was some old, pudgy king who rules over his subjects with an iron fist.” He bowed his head and extended one arm, palm up, the other behind his back. “You all have free will and can do whatever you want. You are so incredibly welcome. Be free, my children.”

When he glanced back up, Geralt was smiling again.

Ciri snorted. “If anything, I think Yennefer’s the king here. She’s much bossier than you are.”

The mage let her mouth play into a satisfied smile. “I would not be opposed to that.”

“Oh, no,” Jaskier exclaimed, “not the witch, I refuse to be ruled by such a tyrant.”

“I’m still holding a knife,” the aforementioned witch reminded him wryly. “Don’t you step out of line.”

“Oh, you _bitch_ ,” Jaskier yelped, leaping away. He snatched something from the counter. “I will ruin you, I promise, with this-” he glanced at his hand and faltered, “-potato as my weapon, there will be nothing left of you when I’m finished, _nothing_ -”

And with that, the kitchen devolved into chaos, all four laughing and screaming at each other until Daisy woke with a shrill screech. 

He was happy, Jaskier decided, even if Yennefer had, eventually, gone to throw the knife in his direction. 

He could get used to this.

Geralt and Ciri left the following week, Yennefer with them. She told Jaskier she’d come back later when the witchers did but had obligations to manage while she was out. Jaskier simply told her to stay safe and packed her an extra loaf of bread. He wasn’t worried.

Against all odds, he wasn’t worried about Geralt and Ciri, either. He’d seen them spar often enough, and was no stranger to Geralt’s abilities. He had faith they could handle themselves.

The house was quiet without them, though.

On a near-daily basis, Daisy asked where “Gerlat” and Ciri were. Jaskier always said the same thing: “They’re hunting, dear heart. They’ll be back soon, don’t you worry.” Daisy accepted this response, though not without a fair amount of distrust. She was accustomed enough to Yennefer leaving from time to time but wasn’t eager to lose her new friends.

Netta did her best to help Jaskier fill the emptiness the house now held. She invited Kara, her girlfriend, over for dinner once or twice and helped Jaskier tend to Geralt’s garden, which had been the witcher’s one request when he had left. 

Jaskier wouldn’t deign to say that he missed the three troublemakers of the household (who was he kidding, there wasn’t a non-troublemaker among them), but he came close. Close enough to wonder about it. It unnerved him. 

Within a week, the two witchers returned, battered and reeking, but calm. Yennefer returned with them in a new dress, the sole indication as to how her trip went. Jaskier greeted each of them with a warm wave and a blunt insistence that they bathe immediately. He didn’t often reflect on his days traveling with Geralt, but when he did, he knew, without question, that he did not miss the smells.

Both witchers had obeyed, trudging up the stairs and to the two bathing rooms, a tired Yennefer in their wake. 

_Yes,_ Jaskier thought. _I think I could get used to this._

The mornings grew colder, and Ciri announced that she would be spending the winter in Kaer Morhen with her uncles. Geralt would be staying in Tenby.

Jaskier tried to ignore the warmth that spread in his chest when heard the second part.

Ciri packed her things, along with several loaves of bread, and bid them all a fond goodbye. When she hugged Jaskier, she whispered in his ear, “Take care of him.” She tightened her arms around him to drive the point home. Jaskier made himself chuckle and agree. 

She did a similar action to Geralt, who glared at her in response to whatever she said. The bard elected not to dwell on that.

With a tentative hug to Daisy and a wink at all of them, Ciri teleported as close to Kaer Morhen as possible.

And that was that.

As Daisy grew older, Jaskier found himself spending less and less time in the bakery. He still loved it, loved the weight and texture of dough in his hand, the heat of ovens against his skin, the conversations he had with the townspeople who came in, intending to buy a loaf of bread and instead talking for half an hour. It was as much home to him as the old house was.

At first, it had felt wrong to be in there alone on Netta’s days off, but Jaskier had become accustomed to it, as one does to all things. Lilia had run the bakery alone for years before Jaskier came along; why couldn’t he do the same?

He smiled faintly at the tub of flour before him, remembering the measurements and proportions Lilia had drilled into his head before even allowing him near dough of any sort. He’d thought it was overkill at the time, but now he was grateful for it. He’d never need a recipe again for the rest of his life. 

The bell jingled, and Jaskier looked up to find an out of breath medic. 

“Hello, Saphia,” he said, bemused. “I haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

She winced, blush spreading over her nose and cheeks. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Jaskier chuckled. “From my understanding, it’s not _your_ fault anyway.”

Saphia’s breath hitched. “Did she…?”

Jaskier held up flour-dusted hands, palms toward her. “I said nothing.” He paused. “But Yennefer’s at the house if you’d like to see her.”

They blinked at each other for a moment, before Saphia began backing out of the door. 

“Thank you,” she said, breathless, and Jaskier smiled unwittingly.

“Tell the witch I said she’s welcome,” he called out behind her. She held up a hand to signal she’d heard.

He watched her run around the bakery toward the house behind it. He hoped Yennefer wasn’t doing anything particularly embarrassing at the moment. No, forget that, he hoped she _was_ , and that Geralt was there with her to tell him about it later.

Jaskier sighed. He was happy for them. He had no idea if whatever was between them could work out, or if it ever really had, but he hoped it would. They both deserved to be happy.

He scooped out a cupful of flour and ignored the ache settling deep within his chest.

Geralt built a greenhouse cover for his garden, using wood planks and thick glass panels he bought from Tenby’s carpenter. 

“Vesemir has one,” he’d grunted in response to Jaskier’s questioning about it. “It traps the light and warmth inside. Helps the plants keep growing in winter.”

Jaskier had nodded and taken his word for it.

At some point, Netta had introduced Geralt to Kara, and he’d asked her for her help with the greenhouse. Jaskier woke up one morning to the sound of hammers on wood and had found Netta in the kitchen, a mug of tea in her hands, watching the two upright the frame of the greenhouse.

“Quite the view,” the girl murmured, mug pressed against her lips. Jaskier followed her line of sight toward Kara, whose long black braid was beginning to come undone. She and Geralt stood side by side, eyes at almost exactly the same level. They exchanged a couple of words before bending down to lift a wall filled with glass panes to rest against the skeleton of the structure.

“Mm,” Netta said, “ass.”

Against his own will, Jaskier found himself inclined to agree.

Jaskier still had dreams about Lilia. He was sure he’d have them for the rest of his life. Healing and moving on wasn’t impossible, but Jaskier had resigned himself very early on to the fact that it would take a long time. 

It took over a year and a half alone for him to stop consistently throwing up after nightmares.

It was a gradual process, as all things are, but Jaskier was glad for it. He hated vomit, hated the acidic burn and taste of it, hated how it completely drained both his stomach and his energy and left him feeling grimy and rotten. 

It still happened from time to time, though by now, he was used to it. The water and mint leaves on his bed stand were testament to that. 

What he wasn’t used to, however, was the fact that Geralt was now standing in his room, the door thrown open behind him, eyes wild and hair flat on one side as he watched Jaskier retch, illuminated only by the faint moon and stars outside.

“Oh,” Jasker clutched the bucket to his chest, ass on the floor and back against the bed. “Hi, Geralt.”

The witcher was frozen. “Are you…?”

“Okay? Mm, sure, yes,” Jaskier spat into the bucket, wrinkling his nose when the smell wafted up to him. “Did I wake you?”

Geralt didn’t answer, yellow eyes instead raking over Jaskier’s body, the tangled mess of sheets behind him, the bucket in his arms. 

“Geralt?”

His attention snapped to Jaskier, eyes locking on to the bard. “How can I help.”

A wave of nausea rolled over Jaskier, and he leaned forward over the bucket. “W-water and mint,” he forced out, against the will of the weight in his stomach. “Bed stand.” _Gods, it’s so warm._

Geralt shut the door behind him, soundless and careful, and walked over to Jaskier, handing him the waterskin and small wooden box of mint leaves. Jaskier reached for the water without lifting his head from the bucket. After wordlessly removing the stopper, Geralt placed it in his hand.

Jaskier tipped his head back to drink, swished, and spat the water back out into the bucket. His head swam, vision blurry as he took another mouthful of water and promptly spat it back out. He pushed the bucket away from him.

“Think ‘m done with that.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier couldn’t tell, but he was sure Geralt’s brows were almost touching purely from the concern radiating from the witcher.

“Yes. Done this enough times…” Jaskier let out a slow breath. “Mm. ‘m sure.”

Geralt slowly picked up the bucket, making a distasteful noise when the contents sloshed around. “Will you be alright while I take care of this?”

Jaskier drew up one knee to rest his forehead on at a glacial pace. “Nngh.”

The witcher set the box of mint on the floor beside Jaskier. “Stay put.” And with that, he was gone.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, buddy,” Jaskier muttered. Usually, this would be the point in which he pulled himself back into bed, but tonight he didn’t feel like it. Geralt seemed to have things covered anyway.

He spent the next minute gathering the energy to pull his shirt off. It was sweat-soaked and clung to his skin, and he wanted nothing more than to throw it out the window.

He missed the window but he did manage to hit Geralt.

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaimed, as much as he could, at least. He wasn’t trying that hard, to be honest, more focused on his newfound freedom from the offending shirt. “Apol’gies. Didn’t know you were there.”

The witcher’s mouth twisted into what Jaskier assumed was a frown. “Do you… want another shirt?”

Jaskier gestured toward a dresser against the wall. Geralt set the now-empty bucket near the door and began to search through Jaskier’s clothes, pausing only when his hand landed on the moss green doublet Jaskier had worn the day he’d arrived in Tenby. It was his last one, as he had no extras and no longer had any reason to wear anything other than a simple tunic and pants. He’d kept it for sentimental reasons but it’d barely been worn in years. Jaskier watched as Geralt physically shook himself before pulling out a simple off-white shirt. 

“This one?” He asked.

Jaskier reached out and did what Daisy did when she wanted something: grabby hands.

Geralt huffed a laugh and brought the shirt to Jaskier. “Arms up.” The bard complied, though not without struggle, already feeling his eyelids begin to droop, and let Geralt slip the shirt over his head. However, when Geralt tried to pull on his hands to pull him up, Jaskier pulled _Geralt’s_ arms down. The other man lowered himself to a crouch in front of Jaskier. 

“You’ve got-” Geralt gestured toward the bard’s face then stopped himself, but Jaskier lifted his chin so Geralt could wipe away whatever it was he was talking about. After a slight hesitation, a warm thumb brushed under his bottom lip once, twice, until Geralt was satisfied with what he saw. 

Jaskier felt his eyelids flutter shut. It’d been almost two years since someone had touched him so gently.

“Are you going to get up?” Geralt asked.

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

Jaskier frowned, eyes still closed. “No.”

“Sick?”

“No.” He forced his eyes open and leveled his gaze at Geralt. “Nightmare.” 

Geralt’s lips thinned.

He sat down to Jaskier’s left and pressed his side to Jaskier’s. “Need to talk?”

Whether through exhaustion or the remaining fuzziness of Jaskier’s thoughts, he gave in and rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “No.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Jaskier echoed. He closed his eyes. “Okay.”

An hour later, he woke up in bed, the blankets pulled up to his chin. The box of mint leaves and the waterskin were back on his dresser. The bucket was on the floor right beside it. He was alone.

Somehow, it still made his chest warm. He snuggled in and went back to sleep, a faint smile on his lips. But… well. That was no one’s business, was it? 

No one’s business but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awwww soft boyes  
> anyway, for those of you who don't know, book and game ciri can teleport?? according to the witcher wiki she's not great at it, but for the purposes of my fic, she can reliably teleport herself, but no one else. that's why yennefer portals her and geralt in and out of tenby.  
> also, geralt and yennefer can sort of connect through a vague bond that the djinn gave them. jaskier doesn't really know this, so it's not mentioned, but that's how yen knows when to pick them up. she's just gotta interpret whatever fuzzy images geralt sends. no clue if this is canon, just another tidbit for my own convenience.  
> oh! and the song jaskier sings to daisy at the beginning of the chap is something i wrote. if the rhythm and whatnot seems weird, that's because it is. it makes sense when sung, i promise.  
> come say hi on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil vomit mentions, a breakdown, and nightmares. just a heads up.

When Jaskier woke for real that morning, it was to yelling and the smell of smoke.

_Fuck._

He pulled on a pair of pants over his underclothes, almost tripping in his haste as he ran out of his room. Daisy stood in her crib, chubby hands clenched tight around the railing, eyes wet and full of fear. He scooped her up and made comforting noises in an attempt to calm both of them.

His terror carried him down the stairs. His legs couldn’t move fast enough.

“You absolute fucking _buffoon_ , I swear to all the gods above _and_ below-”

_Oh._

Geralt stood in the middle of the kitchen, a wooden spatula in hand, watching Yennefer yell and gesture wildly at him with a small pan. The pan had a solidified glob of _something_ stuck to it, charred beyond recognition, and cemented to where it was. The kitchen door was open, likely to help vent the smoke. 

The witcher’s eyes found Jaskier, and his shoulders fell. Guilt was written clearly in the lines of his face.

“Uh,” Jaskier said. Eloquently, as he was renowned for all across the continent.

“Jaskier-” Yennefer spun to face him, shrinking slightly as she noticed Daisy in his arms. She struggled through a deep breath. “Can you _please_ tell Geralt here that eggs are supposed to be cooked with butter so they don’t stick to the pan?”

A muscle in Geralt’s jaw feathered. “I did use butter. They were fine.”

Jaskier shook his head and readjusted Daisy on his hip, fighting a grin. “Until they weren’t.”

“Until they weren’t.” Something fond curled on Geralt’s lips.

“Then what happened?” Yennefer asked, venom still on her tongue, but less so now that Daisy was here. The child squirmed.

“I don’t. Know.” Geralt’s fingers twitched around the handle of the spatula. “We’ve already established this.” 

Yennefer set the pan back down on the wooden counter. “I am.” She sighed. “I am going to the bakery.” She stalked out of the house, leaving Jaskier and Daisy alone with Geralt and the pan.

Jaskier felt his lips quirk.

“What?”

Jaskier burst out into laughter, holding tighter to Daisy as she giggled beside him, clueless, but more than willing to follow her father’s lead. “You-” he gasped for breath, “you burnt- eggs, they were _eggs_.” 

Geralt bit the inside of his mouth, trying desperately not to break like the bard. 

“I thought the house was _burning_ , but they were gods damned _eggs_ -”

The witcher shook his head, lips sealed tight. “I was just trying to do something nice-”

“You are-” _adorable_ , “-the most powerful witcher on the continent, and you burnt eggs.” Tears streamed from Jaskier’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I-”

Daisy whined, evidently bored of Jaskier’s fit. “Gerlat.” She held out both arms, mimicking the movement Jaskier had done the night before.

Amusement and mild annoyance drained from Geralt’s face, replaced with reverence as he reached to take her from Jaskier, who handed her off before bracing a hand on the table to catch his breath. The baby quickly tucked herself into the witcher’s side, fisting a handful of white hair in a chubby hand. 

“Gerlat,” she said happily.

Something deep within Jaskier _ached_ , and he sobered in an instant.

Tearing his gaze away from the baby, Geralt focused on Jaskier, who was leaning over the table, arms propping him up. “How are you feeling?”

Jaskier’s eyes narrowed in confusion before he remembered their encounter the night- or morning, rather- before. “Oh. Better.” An honest smile warmed his cheeks. “Thank you.” 

“It was nothing,” Geralt grunted.

 _It wasn’t, though,_ Jaskier wanted to say. But he kept his mouth shut. 

“So,” he began instead, “why-”

“Hungy,” Daisy interrupted, tugging sharply on Geralt’s hair. 

“Daisy!” Jaskier reprimanded, shocked. She wasn’t shy about stating what she wanted, but usually she wasn’t so… aggressive about it.

The witcher slowly turned his head toward the child in his arms, an unimpressed yet mildly confused expression on his face. He raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”

She ducked her head and released her grip on his hair. “Sorry.” 

Geralt said nothing. Jaskier watched, transfixed.

She looked up from under her lashes, apparently sensing that her apology wasn’t accepted. She pressed a hand to his cheek. “I have food, peas?” Daisy stuck out her lower lip. “Peas, Gerlat?”

“Gerlat” looked at Jaskier, eyebrows still raised. _What do you think?_ his eyes asked.

Swallowing, Jaskier nodded. She wasn’t even two yet. That apology seemed acceptable to him.

“Alright.” Geralt turned and placed Daisy on the counter, sliding a loaf of sweet bread toward himself and pulling a knife from the block. “But if you want something else, your father will have to get it for you,” he shot a smirk behind him at the bard, voice deep and amused, “because apparently that’s beyond me.” 

If Jaskier shivered, it was because of the open door and thin layer of frost on the ground. Nothing else.

He closed the door and set to work at scraping the pan clean. The birds sang along to the sound of Daisy’s gibberish, syncing with the beat of Jaskier’s own heart.

The second anniversary of Lilia’s death knocked Jaskier to his knees.

Several hundred years later, psychologists would dub it, “the Anniversary Effect,” but Jaskier called it “I Haven’t Thrown Up Yet Today, And It’ll Be A Miracle If I Don’t.”

Netta and Yennefer had suggested closing the bakery for a day of festivities to celebrate Daisy’s birthday and distract Jaskier, and he’d agreed. They’d had a family breakfast that morning, Jaskier waking early to help Yennefer prepare for a meal that was, in all honesty, more for them than for the birthday girl.

He’d started off alright. No one had mentioned Lilia’s name or existence throughout the entire breakfast (though it wasn’t like they ever really did). 

Then noon hit and the haze began to set in. Daisy, too young to understand either significance of the day, had given up on trying to reach her father and was instead playing with her new gifts. Netta and Kara had carved her two miniature wooden swords, sanded down and blunt and fierce nonetheless. Yennefer had bought her a handful of soft smocks to supplement her ever-shrinking baby wardrobe. Jaskier gifted her with one of the blankets Lilia had knitted her, sweet cream and larger than her current one. Daisy had exclaimed with glee and wrapped herself up in it upon seeing it.

That had hurt, but Jaskier pretended it didn’t. 

Geralt had stayed in Tenby for the whole winter, but as soon as the light snow had melted, he and Yennefer had portalled away. They’d returned unharmed and with not a rip or dirt stain in their clothing, but neither had answered one of Jaskier’s questions about their trip. 

Jaskier now saw why, as Geralt tentatively handed Daisy the smallest lute he had ever seen. 

It was perfectly strung, frets all in place, the words “For Daisy” swirling on the side. It was crude compared to Filavandrel’s lute upstairs, no doubt designed by human hands for a child, but it brought up a lump in Jaskier’s throat that he couldn't swallow down.

The child eagerly took the lute, a spark of recognition in her dark eyes. She swiped a hand across the strings, the chord ever so slightly out of key. It resonated through Jaskier’s bones.

He didn’t realize he was crying until Netta leaned into his side. 

He swung an arm around her and mustered a thankful smile at Geralt, who mirrored the expression back, eyes more caramel than gold in the daylight. Yennefer clasped her hands in her lap, twisting her mouth to match.

Daisy took another swing at the strings of the lute, and the fire behind her shone brighter than it had before. 

It took until nightfall for Jaskier to fully break. Dinner was a light affair after the day they’d had, casual conversation filling the kitchen and dining room.

Jaskier drank more wine than he ate, earning a light kick under the table from Yennefer. He shoved a guilty spoonful of potatoes into his mouth in response. She narrowed her eyes but didn’t say a word, instead asking Netta about Kara and teasing her at the blush that followed.

Geralt was quiet, lips turned up in a smile more often than not, but wholly focused on Jaskier. The bard ignored it. It wasn’t as if this was a novel experience.

Eventually, stomachs were full, goblets had been drained, and Daisy had been put to bed hours ago. Netta pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s temple and headed up to sleep herself. With a warm squeeze on Jaskier’s shoulder, Geralt followed suit. He hesitated at the stairs, hand tight around the railing, but Jaskier waved him on and he left.

Jaskier and Yennefer were alone, across from each other at the table. The fire crackled softly beside them.

“How are you?” the mage asked.

He snorted, staring into his empty wine goblet mournfully. “You should know the answer to that,” he rolled the stem of the goblet between his fingers before letting it thud onto the table, “being a witch, and all.”

An exhausted sigh pulled itself from Yennefer’s lungs. “And you should know that’s not how it works.”

He hummed, disinterested. The ache in his chest was unrelenting.

“You should sleep, Jaskier,” Yen poked her toe against his shin. “Rest before tomorrow.”

The wine made her voice sound distant. He picked up the goblet again.

“Jaskier.”

“I heard you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, but were you listening?”

“Yes, Yen,” Jaskier grimaced, lifting his head to look her in the eyes. “I’ll sleep soon. I promise.”

She frowned.

“Hey,” he put a hand on hers, not missing her minuscule jump at the contact. “I will. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Yennefer shook her head. A particularly loud pop from the fire drew her attention away, but she turned her focus back on the man before her in the same breath. “I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about who you’re going to be tomorrow if you stay up all night to sulk and finish the rest of the wine. Don’t make that face,” she slipped her hand out from under his as he scowled, “I know you were thinking about it.”

“Was not.” He rubbed his jaw. 

“Don’t lie.”

He kept his mouth shut. 

“I know you’re hurting. We all are.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“Stop it.” She kicked him again, violet eyes hard and unrelenting. “You don’t get to tell others what to feel.”

“Then don’t do the same to me.” He crossed his arms. She had no idea what he was feeling right now, though, to be fair, neither did he. All he knew was that his chest hurt, and his ribcage was tight, and his mouth tasted of cotton, and the fire before him burned with a heat that couldn’t reach the tips of his fingers.

Yennefer scoffed. “So you’re going to tell me you’re not hurting? That you haven’t been all day? For the last two years?”

He winced, unable to hide it.

“Hm.” Yennefer folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t gloat or say that she was right, and he was grateful for it.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re hurting now. That’s natural.” She stood up, collecting both of their goblets and walking over to put them on the counter by the wash basin. “But don’t forget that healing is natural, too.”

He sighed, surrendering. She was right, and he knew it.

“Oh, and,” Yennefer paused at the foot of the stairs, the skirt of her dark dress swirling around her legs, “I’m serious about the wine.” The set of her jaw left no room for argument. “Hungover Jaskier is a whiny bitch.”

Jaskier grunted. She was right about that one, too.

Though he had been planning on breaking into the alcohol cabinet, Jaskier realized he no longer felt like it. He slumped over onto the table, chin resting on his forearms, and stared into the fire. 

That’s how Geralt found him nearly an hour later.

“Can’t sleep?” Jaskier’s eyes found the witcher, but the rest of his body stayed put.

“No,” Geralt sat down on the bench to his left. “The whole house reeks of heartache and pain. It’s hard to sleep with.”

Jaskier rested the side of his head on his arms so he could look at Geralt. “Was that supposed to comfort me?”

The witcher hesitated, then huffed, shoulders hunching inward. “No, I suppose not.”

Jaskier rotated his head back to face the fire. It waved at him and he almost considered waving back.

“Have you ever been in love before, Geralt?”

The man went stiff beside him. “What?”

The alcohol in Jaskier’s system had taken root since Yennefer left, and brushed Geralt’s tension off as a reaction to such a personal question. He repeated himself. “Have you ever been in love?”

Geralt didn’t answer. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”

Geralt shifted uncomfortably but didn’t correct him.

“That’s okay,” the bard said, and the fire nodded in agreement. “You will be someday. And it’ll ruin you.”

“Was that supposed to comfort me?” the witcher rumbled.

“No,” Jaskier said in all honesty, ignoring the attempt at an amused tone with which Geralt had responded, tipsy mind instead latching on to the hint of anxiety. “I just thought you should know.”

“Well… thank you.” Geralt sounded unsure of himself.

Jaskier hummed.

The wind outside rustled its opinion, but neither man paid any attention.

“You should sleep, Jaskier.”

“No.” The answer was faster than either of them expected it to be.

“No?” Geralt asked.

“If I sleep, I’ll see her.” Jaskier squeezed his own arms. “And seeing her hurts.”

“Nightmares?”

Jaskier nodded.

They were both silent for a moment.

“Either way, you’ll see her, Jask,” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier felt his shoulders tense. “You’ll see her in the way Daisy talks, and acts, and moves, and in the way a loaf of bread rises, and how the sun sets, and… a million other things that remind you of her.” He took a faltering breath, almost talking to himself more than the bard next to him. “You’re always going to see her. No matter what you do.”

“But if I don’t sleep,” Jaskier whispered, “I don’t have to see her die.” His cheeks were wet.

Geralt rested his forearms on the table and hung his head. “If you don’t sleep, you don’t get to see Daisy live.”

A sob wrestled its way out of Jaskier before he could stop it. He put his forehead on his arms and let the rest crawl out, whole upper body jerking with the force of it. Geralt pressed their legs together and moved a hand to his lower back and Jaskier, goddess help him, leaned into it.

He shook until his tears ran dry and, for good measure, some more after that. Geralt remained steady throughout.

When he finally stilled, Jaskier found himself curled into Geralt’s side, the witcher’s arms wrapped around his back. His head fit neatly under Geralt’s chin, and his arms were tucked up between their chests. In over twenty years of traveling together, this was not the first time they’d held each other, but they’d never done it quite like this. 

Geralt’s fingers traced soft circles on Jaskier’s back.

“When did you become the poetic one?” Jaskier whispered once he had the strength.

He could feel the vibration in Geralt’s breast as he spoke. “I’m not.”

Jaskier sniffed, wiping his nose with one hand and his eyes with the other. “Are you sure you’ve never been in love?”

Arms tightened around him, but there was no response. Jaskier wiped snot and tears from his hands onto his pants.

“You know, if you don’t answer again, you’re going to make yourself look suspicious.”

Geralt grunted. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Suspicious,” Jaskier mumbled, but he allowed Geralt to pull away and help him stand up. His eyelids were already fighting against his will to keep them open. A quick glance at the fire revealed it was much lower than it had been when Geralt first came down. _Great._

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, cheeks flushing more than they already were. “You should have been sleeping by now, I-”

Geralt shushed him, an arm winding around his waist to guide him up the staircase. “Don’t. It’s nothing.”

Jaskier hiccuped. “You said that last time, too.”

“Because it’s true.” 

The bard didn’t know what to say to that.

They reached his room, Geralt turning the doorknob and leading him toward the bed. Jaskier shakily pulled off his shirt and trousers and tossed them on the floor, blind to the way the witcher averted his gaze as he did so. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up as high as they could go without smothering him.

The moonlight in Geralt’s eyes was just a little bit more than fond.

He began his retreat to the door. “Good night, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s hand shot out to catch him. “Thank you. Really.”

Exhaustion was written in the lines on Geralt’s face, but he managed a smile. “That’s what you do for friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier agreed, a sliver of disappointment coloring his voice. He had no idea where that came from. He let his fingers fall from around Geralt’s wrist. “It is.”

He closed his eyes as the witcher slipped out the door.

Jaskier did dream about Lilia’s death that night. He saw it exactly as it had happened: trembling and pale on the floor of their old bedroom near the foot of the bed, Daisy’s screams harmonizing with the ones he locked up in his own skull. 

Afterward, he threw up his dinner into the bucket, Geralt miraculously there with a tin cup of cool water and mint at the ready. When Jaskier tried to ask him how he’d known, the witcher brushed him off and handed him a leaf to chew on. He didn’t ask beyond that.

Morning cheerfully greeted them both with sunlight and singing birds. The smell of eggs and oatmeal trailed not far behind. 

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, guilt dark in his eyes.

“What?”

“I hadn’t meant to stay here,” he admitted. “I’d planned on sleeping in my own room after I was sure you were alright.”

Jaskier pulled the blankets tighter around himself, though Geralt’s weight on top of them didn’t allow him to move them much. He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he settled on, “Thank you. For everything.”

The witcher exhaled slowly before reaching over and squeezing Jaskier’s hand, eyes brimming with what looked to be a thousand unspoken words.

He said none of them and slid off the bed and out of the room.

Jaskier’s gaze lingered on the door for longer than it probably should have before he roused himself up and out of bed, toward the bathroom, and breakfast, and the bakery after that.

He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed at all the words Geralt had left unsaid.

Things were uneventful after that. Ciri returned for a time, loudly pronouncing that Kaer Morhen was damn near insufferable without Yennefer or Geralt there, and that she loved her uncles and Vesemir, but if she had to listen to Lambert and his newest conquest for one more night that she’d murder them all. Jaskier burst out into raucous laughter, a large contrast to Yennefer’s sympathetic wince and Geralt’s tired sigh. 

Ciri also brought Daisy a stuffed rabbit and apologized profusely for missing her birthday. Daisy accepted the toy without complaint and named it “Hestia,” after the goddess Netta kept telling her about. She happily continued on with life. 

Geralt left Tenby a handful of times, to hunt and find replacements for weapons should he need them (Tenby had a local blacksmith but it was safe to say swords were not his usual commissions). He always returned filthy from days of travel and the fight, hair threatening to mat with dirt and scum even when he did have enough time and coin to bathe before making the trip back. He and Jaskier picked up one of their old habits: the baths after a hunt. If Jaskier was home when Geralt returned, he’d offer to wash the witcher’s hair and tend to his wounds. No one else offered unless Geralt was seriously injured, and Jaskier knew from experience that Geralt wouldn’t tell anyone of his injuries unless they were debilitating, so he decided the best thing to do was to check them for himself. 

The first time Jaskier had proposed this arrangement, it had been nearly thirty years ago and largely against Geralt’s wishes, but he’d allowed the bard to wash him anyway, and never looked back. 

Now, as old(er) and supposedly wise(r) fathers, they approached the situation tentatively before diving back into old habits as though no time had passed at all.

That was a common theme between the two of them, Jaskier noticed. He and Geralt spent their time apart both in between fights and not, but like Yennefer had said, they always came back to each other just as they had before.

This didn’t pertain to everything of course. Some things never go back to the way they were. Oftentimes, it’s because they shouldn’t.

Jaskier didn’t dwell on that thought. After all, why would he? There was nothing he would change. He was not happy, he knew that much, there was a Lilia shaped gap in his soul, but he was close to it. It felt like he grew closer every day. 

Seasons passed, as did the third anniversary of Lilia’s death. Jaskier did something novel and decided to only start referring to the day as Daisy’s birthday.

It helped, a little bit. But he still woke up and retched into the bucket beside him.

It was just bile that year. And Geralt was there with water anyway.

That summer, Jaskier dreamt of his and Lilia’s old bedroom, so much so that it began to drive him insane. The dreams weren’t always bad: sometimes they were memories of him singing to her and an unborn Daisy; sometimes they were mornings woken to Lilia’s arms draped over his face, her snoring pressed against his ear; and sometimes they were long nights that left him aching in more than just his heart.

It grew to the point that every time he was upstairs, the room called to him, taunting, begging, teasing, full of memories he wanted to forget and never let fade away.

When it started reaching him downstairs, he drew the line. 

“I’m going to renovate the old bedroom,” he said over dinner one night. Everyone except Daisy stopped eating. 

“Oh?” Yennefer placed her fork in her mouth in a delayed attempt to mask her shock.

“Yes,” he said, firm. “It’s been driving me insane and I need to just…” he shrugged, “change it.” 

“What will you change it to?” Netta asked. 

“I don’t know yet,” he said, which was true. He had no plans for the room or renovation; he wasn’t even sure what the house lacked that he could add, but he knew one thing for sure: “Not a bedroom.” 

Everyone nodded understandingly. They all knew what kind of memories the room held, even Geralt, who had never heard the full story, not from Jaskier at least. Jaskier assumed that he’d gotten close to the room, perhaps smelled Jaskier and Lilia and the trauma that might still linger, and understood.

Or Yennefer told him, but she wasn’t quite the type to divulge information of that nature without asking or at least letting Jaskier know about it. So he assumed it was the former.

“Well,” Geralt said, interrupting the silence. “I’d be more than happy to lend a hand should you need it.”

Thankfulness flooded Jaskier’s heart and he hoped his smile conveyed it. 

However, saying that one is going to clean out the room that their lover died in is wildly different than actually going through with it.

Throughout the next couple of weeks Jaskier found himself with his hand on the doorknob, unable to twist it and enter. Once he did push open the door, but the light from the open curtains had blinded his senses and he’d dropped his hand from the handle and left the house. 

If anyone noticed, they didn’t say a word. They understood the significance of this, Jaskier hoped, and were content to let him attempt to deal with it in his own time. 

Jaskier, however, was not nearly as patient, and it didn’t take long for someone else to pick up on this.

“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt rumbled, eyes closed and body mostly submerged underneath the bathwater. 

“Nothing, I’m fine.” He brushed the comment off, lathering soap in the witcher’s hair and watching it return to his normal color. 

Geralt hummed. “You’re not acting ‘fine.’”

“Well.” Jaskier shifted on his stool. That was one thing that had changed about their baths: Jaskier now spent them on a stool, instead of on his knees on the floor. A man Jaskier’s age could only be on his knees for so long every day, and he filled that quota playing on the floor with Daisy alone. “I am,” he said.

Geralt was silent for a moment, before he said, “But you don’t have to be.”

 _Gods_ , Jaskier thought, _all those years with Ciri made Geralt wiser and so well-spoken, and for what? So he could run headlong into battle and then spend his baths lecturing me while I clean his wounds?_ He huffed and poured a bucket of water on Geralt to rinse his head. 

Jaskier moved on to the claw marks in Geralt’s shoulder. They’d been cleaned already, but he made sure there was no remaining dirt or gravel before taking a cloth and lathering over Geralt’s unharmed shoulder and back, ignoring the way Geralt held his breath and leaned into the touch. 

This was normal for them. Geralt pretended he wasn’t as touch starved as he was, and Jaskier let him, as though he wasn’t the same. 

The bard changed topics, though not by much. “What do you think I should turn the old room into?”

“Mm,” Geralt said. 

_So much for being well-spoken._

After a moment, Geralt answered. “I think… you should turn it into a day room. To play your lute and maybe learn to draw and play with Daisy somewhere other than the kitchen floor.” He grunted when Jaskier’s fingers found a knot in his shoulder. “I think that would be nice.”

Jaskier pressed his own weight into the knot, thinking. It would be nice to have a special place for Daisy to play, and any excuse to play the lute seemed like a good one. He smiled softly.

“Thank you, Geralt. I like that idea.” He shifted the pressure on the knot and Geralt made a pained noise.

“Too much?”

“No. Just right.”

Jaskier nodded, even though he knew Geralt couldn’t see him. The witcher’s heightened senses probably let him know anyway. 

Jaskier had a real nightmare that night, and surprisingly enough, it didn’t start off in the old bedroom.

It was blurry and muted like someone dried out his eyes and plugged wax in his ears, but he could see and hear enough to know that he and Lilia were in the bakery. They were talking, though he wasn’t sure about what, and then Yennefer appeared at the door, clutching her bleeding abdomen as she did all those years ago. Jaskier rushed to her, but by the time he was by her side it wasn’t Yennefer on the floor, but Lilia, in a pool of her own blood, back on the floor of their bedroom. 

Somewhere, he thought Daisy might be crying. But it might have been him. 

He took her head in his lap, begged her, pleaded with her not to go, but she only smiled and whispered, “Daisy and Dandelion, together against the world.”

The life drained out of her eyes, but the fireplace by her head spluttered to a start, billowing and roaring, and then Jaskier was in the woods, on the ground holding _Geralt_ in his arms. The fire screamed by his head, muffled but still deafening, and Jaskier leaned over the witcher’s body, to protect it, save him, keep any bit of life in his body where it is. Flames rose above him, towering over the trees, and Jaskier thought he would cry if the heat hadn’t scorched every bit of moisture from his body.

But then the fire lowered and calmed down to a casual bonfire, akin to any that Geralt would have made in all of his years traveling the continent. 

And then it was no longer a fire, but Lilia.

And she smiled at him. Opened her mouth to speak. 

He tried to run to her, but he couldn’t let go of the body in his arms, it was holding him there, and he didn’t _want_ to let go, but Lilia was so close and if he just got a little closer he could-

Wake up. 

He woke up, cold, in bed, and alone.

Though his habit of throwing up after nightmares had almost died out over the years, Geralt had made a parallel habit of showing up when he did so. As Jaskier dry heaved into the bucket, the silence in the room beside his own ragged breathing became intolerable. 

When nothing came up, he sucked in a harsh breath and set the bucket down on the floor. 

The air was still. Even the summer night outside was quiet.

Jaskier hugged his knees to his chest and wondered where Geralt was. 

He found himself stepping out of bed, tiptoeing through his room and out into the hallway toward Geralt’s room. He pressed an ear to the door, expecting silence.

Instead he heard a whimper.

“Geralt?” he whispered.

No response. 

Without thinking, Jaskier’s hand was on the doorknob, twisting it easily and quietly as he opened the door. 

Another whimper.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier slipped into the room, not quite shutting the door behind him, to find Geralt in a tangled mess of sheets, bare skin damp, and breathing erratic. 

He didn’t come after Jaskier’s nightmare because he was having one of his own.

“Oh, dear.”

Stealth abandoned, Jaskier pressed a gentle hand on Geralt’s forehead. It was slick with sweat. The witcher whimpered again.

“Geralt,” he reached the other hand to take one of Geralt’s hands, fingers twitching on the mattress. “Geralt, wake up, it’s only a dream, you’re alright-”

The witcher’s golden eyes flew open, one hand tight around Jaskier’s wrist by his forehead, the other bunched up in the collar of the bard’s shirt.

Jaskier squeaked.

Recognition flooded Geralt’s eyes, and he dropped Jaskier’s shirt and wrist, instead using those same hands to scramble back to the other side of the bed. Fear and guilt shone in his eyes.

Jaskier’s heart broke for him.

“Jaskier, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, no,” he stopped him, deliberately sitting down on the bed, hands held up where Geralt could see them. “I’m sorry. I scared you.”

Geralt’s breathing was no more even awake than it had been asleep.

“Here,” Jaskier spread his arms, scooting closer on the mattress. “Come here.”

They were the same words Jaskier had said when Geralt first arrived in Tenby, and the witcher responded in kind.

He moved forward to fit into Jaskier’s open arms, head tucked into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, entire body folded up into a ball that Jaskier curled around. They’d done this before, when Geralt had nightmares in between or on hunts, and it almost felt strange to be doing it again after so many years.

Then Geralt’s breathing began to smooth out and Jaskier pressed his cheek to soft white hair, running a hand through it, and it didn’t feel so strange anymore. 

They stayed like that for the rest of the night, eyes closed, taking solace in the warmth of each other’s bodies. Before he drifted off to sleep, Jaskier heard the beginning spark of a song in the back of his mind.

_‘Cause this breathing you hear, don’t mistake it for sighs, don’t you realize? They’re just battle cries, dear…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the thatw fans out there- i see you.  
> anyway.  
> come say hi on the good ol' [tumblr wumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild gore cw

Progress on the room was slow. But so was healing. Jaskier did his best to take both in stride.

The first time he managed to cross the threshold of his old bedroom, he just stood there, one hand against the wall, holding him steady while the memories crashed down around him. Geralt appeared behind him and placed a strong hand on the small of his back to ground him.

That was as far as he got that day, but he didn’t cry or throw up. He was proud of himself for it.

His next attempt took him to the bed. He sat on his side of it, one hand fisted in long-unused sheets, the other grasping his own thigh, squeezing and pinching to keep anything from resurfacing too much. After a few minutes, he gathered the strength to remove the quilts and sheets from the bed, bundling them in his arms to take downstairs and wash. 

The trip that followed that one was quick. Jaskier took a handful of rags and wiped down every surface in the room. He opened the windows to keep himself from inhaling all of the dust he disturbed, but the incoming breeze sent more of it flying than Jaskier would have on his own. He spent the next two days sneezing every time he took a breath too deep, and Yennefer made a point of calling him out for the mistake every time he did. 

Geralt simply handed him a handkerchief to wipe away his snot and tried to hide the fond curve to his mouth.

Jaskier’s fourth attempt was harder than the first three combined. He had an idea for how to tackle the room and thus had planned on bringing a chest into the room to sort what items of Lilia’s he wanted to toss and to keep. Geralt helped him bring the chest in but ultimately left him with a hesitant press of lips on the top of his head and warm squeeze on his shoulder. Jaskier only hummed in response, staring at the wardrobe before him.

Most of Lilia’s clothes could be given away or repurposed. She’d lived a simple life in Tenby, wearing mostly plain smocks and dresses, plus the occasional pair of trousers and shirts that Jaskier was sure had once been his. In the end, he kept Lilia’s only sundress, a leather bracelet he’d bought for her so many years ago, and a couple of odd books. All of the items would go to Daisy when she was old enough. The aprons would go back to the bakery, and rest could be sold, placed in storage, or used for other projects. 

One item remained in the bottom drawers of the dresser. It was a small hand cloth, folded neatly and tucked away into the far back corner. Jaskier retrieved it with trembling hands and unfolded it to reveal the small, messily embroidered field of daisies along the bottom hemline. 

Tears pricked at the backs of his eyes, but considering he’d just gone through all of his dead lover’s possessions without breaking, he was okay with letting these tears fall. 

Geralt found him like that, on the floor, crying with the hand cloth in his lap. He gingerly helped the other man up then carried the full chest downstairs where it would be dealt with later. Jaskier trailed behind him under the guise of “spotting” in case Geralt happened to drop the chest and needed someone to catch it, the handcloth in a pocket pressed against his thigh.

Geralt didn’t drop the chest, but Jaskier could tell from the crinkle of his eyes that he was endeared to the sentiment. 

Then came the truly difficult part: moving the bed. 

Jaskier decided, with the rest of the family’s input, that the bed and accompanying bed stand would go into Daisy’s room. It wasn’t a fancy bed by any means, none of their furniture was, but the frame was steady and the mattress intact. Daisy would have somewhere to go when she outgrew the crib that was already feeling too small. 

Geralt and Yennefer did most of the heavy lifting with that. Netta and Jaskier took apart the bed frame to fit it through the door.

Jaskier had avoided the spot on the floor where Lilia died almost entirely before that. It hadn’t been too hard, as Saphia had been able to clean up the blood before it stained the wood, leaving no visible mark. All he’d had to do was not look at it and focus on the task at hand. 

Now that the room was empty, this was considerably harder. He could see everything as clearly as it would have been if it was still there, exactly the way it was the night she died. 

Jaskier didn’t do anything that day. He sat on the spot on the floor where he had sat when she’d taken her last breath, and tried to keep the volume of his sobs to a minimum. 

He left only when Netta came to retrieve him, asking tentatively if he wanted to eat dinner with the rest of them or alone in his room. 

He splashed some cold water on his face and plastered on a smile. 

Daisy beamed at him when he joined them at the table.

Jaskier didn’t work on the room for a while after that. Fall came around and Geralt’s garden needed tending, as did finances at the bakery and Daisy’s rapidly growing hair.

She was three now, almost four, and the best and worst parts of everyone in the house combined.

Physically, she looked exactly as though Jaskier imagined Lilia did at her age. She spoke like Netta and schemed like Yennefer and glowered like Geralt and sang like Jaskier.

She laughed like Lilia. Like sunshine.

But Jaskier was biased anyway.

Daisy didn’t know about her mother’s death, or death in general, for that matter. She was three years old. Nothing in her memory explained any of that to her, so it was a lesson the family expected to teach her at one point or another.

And, well, the dead sparrow in the backyard was opportunity enough.

Daisy waddled up to it, Netta only barely managing to hold her back from touching it. Daisy screamed.

She did that a lot, these days.

“Melitele above,” Jaskier grumbled and jogged from the garden over to his daughter despite his protesting knees. Geralt wasn't far behind. The horses and goats glanced up from their penned-in area. 

“Come, now, little shark,” he consoled, picking her up to rest on his hip. His fingernails were crusted with dirt, so he let Netta wipe away her tears in his place. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I wanna touch the _birdie_ ,” she wailed. 

Jaskier followed Netta’s pointed finger to the birdie in question and winced. “Daisy, darling, you can’t touch that bird, he’s dead.”

Geralt’s hand stopped a foot from the bird. Jaskier kicked him.

“Dead?” Daisy whimpered.

“Yes, dear,” Jaskier bounced her lightly. He looked at Netta for help but she only raised her hands and shook her head. He sighed.

“Alright, Daisy, do you know what this is?” He pressed her tiny hand to the pulse point in his neck. The tears stopped and she stared at her hand, fascinated. “That’s called a heartbeat. It’s created by all the blood rushing through your body, which is pumped by your heart.” He tapped her sternum lightly with a finger. She giggled, and a soft smile spread over his face. “Now, sometimes, something happens and the heart stops beating. When it does that, the blood stops moving and the creature the heart belongs to dies.” 

Geralt shifted awkwardly to Jaskier’s left.

“That’s alright, though,” the bard continued. “It’s just how life works. Someday, our hearts will stop beating. Our bodies will return to the dirt, and our souls will go and play with the stars.” He looked up to the sky and saw her gaze follow in his peripheral. “That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”

Daisy considered it. “No…”

Jaskier beamed. 

“...but I wanna touch the birdie.”

He sighed, and Geralt stifled a laugh. Jaskier kicked him again. Netta snorted.

“You can’t touch the birdie,” the witcher said, gentle but with the ghost of a smile still on his lips. “Unless you’re going to eat them, it’s best to leave dead creatures on their own.”

“Eat them?” Daisy asked.

Jaskier glared at Geralt over Daisy’s curls. He shook his head. _Why would you bring that up?_

The witcher shrugged. “Everyone has to eat, Daisy.”

The child nodded. This, apparently, made perfect sense to her, but not touching the bird did not.

Geralt smirked at Jaskier, triumphant. The bard rolled his eyes.

“What’s gonna happen to the birdie?”

“It’ll go back to the earth, dear,” Jaskier said.

“We could bury it,” Netta offered. “To… ease the process along?” 

_To get rid of it_ , her eyes said. Jaskier smiled.

“What a smart idea!” He turned to Geralt, eyebrows raised expectantly. “What do you think, my darling witcher?”

Golden eyes bounced back and forth between Jaskier and Netta’s expecting faces and Daisy’s mildly confused one. Geralt sighed. 

“I’ll go get the shovel.”

Jaskier poorly hid his grin.

They buried the bird underneath a large pine tree at the edge of the woods in the backyard. Netta said a couple of words after Geralt patted down the last bit of dirt.

Daisy watched, silent, chubby hands fisted in Jaskier’s shirt. 

The last time they’d done this it had been her mother in the ground, not some random bird. Daisy didn’t know that. Jaskier did.

He squeezed Netta’s hand and pressed a feather-light kiss to Geralt’s cheek in thanks before leaving his daughter with Netta and headed back to the garden, where his newly sprouted squash patiently waited for him to return. 

Ciri returned in late fall and announced that, if they would have her, she’d be staying for winter. She was, of course, welcomed with open arms, and the family prepared to settle in together for the season. 

Jaskier spent most of his days teaching Daisy. She now knew colors, numbers, and all the letters of the alphabet. He’d begun reading Lilia’s old books to her that summer, a collection of old folk tales and various mythology that had been collected from all around the continent. Jaskier had no clue as to how Lilia had come to possess a book like that, but she had traveled a lot before she came to Tenby. Perhaps it was from that.

After the first frost had frozen and thawed, a grandmother in the village grew ill and died. She left behind an old [spinet piano,](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spinet) a rare instrument Jaskier had only ever seen in possession of his professors at Oxenfurt. The grieving family offered it to his, not wanting it to go unused for the rest of time, and Jaskier gratefully accepted. 

Ciri and Geralt helped him move it into the old bedroom. They added a low table and a rug to the room, placing them in the ever-present patch of sunlight by the window. Kara threw together some scraps of wood to make two standing easels for art, which Jaskier, despite her protests, adequately paid her for.

The room was coming together. The walls no longer threatened to cave in on Jaskier when he entered, though he’d be lying if he said they didn’t seem to think about it sometimes. 

“Lilia would love it in here,” Yennefer said, and Jaskier nodded. 

“Yes.” One side if his mouth tilted up. “She would.”

The trees waved at them through the window, and on a whim, Jaskier waved back.

This winter was colder than the previous ones. Blizzards kept everyone locked indoors, and Jaskier thanked Melitele and Hestia alike for the fact that Geralt had spent practically the whole summer gardening and chopping wood. Sometimes he thought that fire and hot squash soup were the only things keeping him from growing icicles and becoming one with his own floor. 

The water pump outdoors eventually froze over, so baths were collected from bucketfuls of snow poured into the cauldron over the fire and then into the bath. It was a tedious process, but then again, when was it not?

Jaskier began to teach Daisy to play the spinet. The fireplace in that room had rarely been used before, but now it was almost always lit.

Daisy took to the spinet as fast as she had to the miniature lute that Geralt had gifted her for her second birthday. Though that lute was just a toy, it had exponentially increased her love for music, and soon she was able to play an assortment of things by ear, squeezed beside her father on the tiny bench before the spinet. Geralt tried to learn once and soon discovered that while his rhythm in battle was immaculate, it didn’t stand up against a small keyboard and simple melodies.

What Geralt did excel at, however, was drawing.

Using old sheets of fabric taken from ruined clothing or bedsheets drawn tight against the frame of an easel, he drew charcoal images of anything he could think of. The witcher’s memory had held up against the horrors he’d seen and felt in his long life, and he drew old foes, friends, and landscapes he’d seen, and included everything from the smallest freckle to an errant bee.

Several times, Jaskier thought he saw Geralt begin to draw himself, but those sketches never made it past the eyes before Geralt washed them out. 

That was the thing about Geralt’s drawings. Paper was difficult to find, so cloth was all they had, and seeing as it was winter, that was hard to spare, too. Thus, most of Geralt’s creations were washed out when he was done with them, retreating back into his memory and the memory of whoever had been lucky enough to see them. He only kept one: a sketch he’d done of Daisy and Jaskier together, hunched over Lilia’s book, trying to spell out the name of an enchanted maiden who had long ago become one with the earth. 

Jaskier had insisted he keep that one. It hung above his bed, a makeshift frame holding it taut and open for all the world to see.

Someday, he’d find Geralt some paints. He couldn’t wait to see what the witcher would do then.

Daisy laid curled up in Jaskier’s lap, warm between him and the fire. She’d fallen asleep long ago, but he remained sitting on the ground, reading Lilia’s book with a heavy quilt around them both. He was unwilling to wake her, even if his own back was beginning to ache from sitting hunched over for so long.

The door of the day room, as it truly was its own space now, no longer the old bedroom, swung open and Geralt walked in, barefoot and in a simple shirt and trousers. Seeing Geralt without his armor was a common occurrence; it had been for the two years he’d lived with them. But in moments like this, with his hair wet against his forehead, the collar of his shirt exposing more of the right shoulder than the left, and eyes sleepy and at peace, Jaskier couldn’t help but hold his breath a little. He didn’t think he’d ever fully get used to it. 

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” 

Jaskier shook his head and set the book down, gesturing for Geralt to join them. “She’s just sleeping.”

The witcher nodded and sat down beside Jaskier, who lifted his arm to allow Geralt to huddle under the quilt with them. His clothes were dry, but his skin still held a chill to it, pressed against Jaskier’s with only a couple thin layers of fabric between them. 

“How’s the greenhouse?” Jaskier asked, voice low so as to not disturb the sleeping child.

Geralt sighed, shifting closer. “It’s alright. The only damage was on a couple of glass panels that cracked from the weight of the snow. I cleaned them off and they’ll hold for now, but I suspect they’ll need to be replaced before the winter is up.” 

The bard nodded. “Did you bathe?”

“No.”

Jaskier turned to look at him, amused. “Your hair is that wet from just the snow?”

“Yes,” Geralt grumbled. 

A fond chuckle shook Jaskier’s chest, and he leaned in to rest his head on the witcher’s shoulder. “You poor thing.”

Geralt snorted, a hand slipping between the quilt and Jaskier’s back, coming to rest on the floor beside his thigh as Geralt pressed closer to the other man to grant him better access to his shoulder. He ghosted the other hand over Daisy’s hair. The child let out a contented sigh.

“I don’t know,” the witcher murmured. “I don’t feel so poor right now.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched. He blamed it on the shock of cold, wet hair against his head.

They stayed like that as the fire died down, cuddled together underneath the quilt. Snow drifted down outside the windows, illuminated by the faint light of the fire, the dark night stretching out beyond it. 

Eventually, the pain in Jaskier’s back became too much, and he had to stand up, sliding Daisy into Geralt’s lap. As he did so, his joints released several loud cracks. Geralt’s eyes widened in alarm. 

“Don’t worry,” Jaskier chuckled, stretching backward to help his spine pop back into place. “That creaking isn't pain, it’s applause.” 

“That’s… poetic.”

“I’m not a young man anymore, Geralt.” Jaskier gathered the quilt in his arms as the witcher stood, Daisy still cradled against his chest. “This body won’t hold up forever.” His tone was bittersweet. He knew he wasn’t the same man that Geralt had met at 19, physically or otherwise. He was aging. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

Sadness shone in Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier wanted to hold him, squeeze him tight until every drop of pain and heartache had drained into the floorboards beneath him.

Instead, he swung the quilt over his shoulders and took Daisy from the witcher’s arms. Giving in to temptation, he placed a kiss on Geralt’s temple.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” he said and carried his daughter off to her own bed.

He didn’t look back, but he knew Geralt was frozen still behind him. 

Winter ended slowly, dredges of snow remaining well past Daisy’s birthday. Jaskier had nightmares but slept through the night. Geralt and Ciri occasionally went out on hunts. Netta and Jaskier ran the bakery. Yennefer traveled the continent when she wasn’t home with the rest of them or with Saphia.

They’d made up, much to Jaskier’s delight. He didn’t gloat, because that would have been cruel, though he did undeservingly take credit for their reunion, something which he reminded Yennefer of every time he had the chance.

She often punched him for it, but that was alright. He knew he deserved it. And it made Geralt laugh, so really, it was worth the temporary pain.

On a whim, Jaskier grew a beard. He’d done it once in his twenties, but it’d never been his thing, so he figured he’d give it another shot.

Surprisingly, it stuck. At first, Daisy was scared of it and Netta said it made him look old, but both soon changed their minds. Ciri outright admitted she liked it. Geralt squinted at it excessively but never said a word.

Yennefer laughed at it. She was always laughing at Jaskier these days. It was nice to see her smile.

Ciri’s voice trembled, muffled by the walls. “Yennefer, it’s Geralt, he’s-”

“Oh, _fuck._ ”

Jaskier almost dropped Lilia’s book. He and Daisy looked at each other, matching expressions of panic on their faces.

“Daisy,” Jaskier said, voice low in warning, “stay in this room, okay sweetheart? Don’t leave.”

“Dada-” 

“I’m serious.” He took her tiny hands in his. “Just for a little while, okay? Read the book or draw or something. But stay _here_.”

She nodded, fear in her brown eyes.

Jaskier kissed her forehead and ran out of the day room, closing the door gently before running down the stairs.

Geralt was on the kitchen floor, skin white as death against the stone as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A pool of blood was slowly growing beneath him.

Lilia’s lifeless body flashed before Jaskier’s eyes.

_“No.”_

Yennefer’s head shot up. “Good, Jaskier, you’re here. Is Daisy okay?”

He nodded, eyes glued to the gash in Geralt’s armor. “She’s in the day room.”

“Good. Ciri just went to grab Saphia and Netta.” She took a shaky breath. “Help me cut away the rest of his clothing.” 

The witcher let out a small moan. The lump of muscle between Jaskier’s lungs seized. 

Jaskier accepted the knife Yennefer handed him and began cutting and tearing at layers of leather and cloth. He’d cleaned and tended to Geralt’s wounds before, but this was like nothing he’d ever seen. 

There was a singular cut through Geralt’s abdomen, just short of exposing organs. It was straight, practiced, planned. The skin around the wound shone with a soft green sheen. Poison. This was no casual swipe of claws or teeth from some monster. 

Yennefer’s sharp intake of breath told Jaskier she’d come to the same conclusion. 

From behind him, Jaskier heard Netta whimper. He twisted to face her. “Go to Daisy. She’s in the day room.”

Netta remained frozen on the spot, face pale. 

“Go!” Jaskier snarled.

She ran. 

Soon, Geralt’s bare abdomen was exposed, and Jaskier’s hands and clothes were stained with his blood. Geralt’s eyes rolled around in his head.

“Put this in his mouth.” Yen handed Jaskier a strip of folded leather she’d cut from Geralt’s armor. Jaskier gingerly lifted Geralt’s head and placed the leather between his teeth, murmuring words of encouragement and comfort all the while. 

Alcohol splattered Jaskier’s arms when Yennefer splashed a little on the skin around the wound, wiping it clean. Geralt’s body jerked as he cried out in pain. Jaskier tried to hold him down.

Saphia and Ciri ran into the kitchen. The medic dropped her bag beside the three of them, rifling through it and pulling out a large vial of clear liquid. 

Ciri sat by Geralt, opposite of Yennefer, wrapping her fingers around Geralt’s hand. 

Saphia dribbled the clear liquid on Geralt’s wound, muttering something in elder Jaskier couldn’t distinguish. The poison slowly lifted from the tissue, mingling with the still gushing blood. It gathered together in a floating glob of pale green liquid, before floating into a vial Saphia held in front of her. She quickly plugged in the stopper and set the vial aside, opening a new one and pouring it directly into the wound.

Geralt screamed around the leather, bucking around as Jaskier and Ciri held him down.

Saphia and Yennefer both put their hands over the cut, muttering hushed words. Their voices blended together, the tissue slowly beginning to knit itself together. Saphia wiped her face on her sleeve without moving her hands from the wound. A droplet of her own blood smeared below her nose.

After what could have been two minutes or an hour, the wound sealed over, the new skin much paler than the rest of Geralt’s stomach. Jaskier’s shoulder and back ached from holding the witcher to the floor.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Saphia noted. Jaskier just barely held back his snarl of _Oh, you don’t say?_

He tried to relearn how to breathe instead. 

“Lift his head and open his mouth,” she commanded. 

The bard slipped his lap underneath Geralt’s head and shoulders and removed the strip of leather. One of the layers had been bitten clean through. Saphia poured yet another elixir into the witcher’s mouth, which Geralt swallowed without argument. His eyes were more open now, but he seemed no more aware of the people or room around him than before.

Yennefer wiped her bloodied hand on her dress and pressed it to his forehead. Golden eyes fell shut and stuttered breathing evened out.

The medic, the mage, the young witcher, and the bard all looked at each other, exhausted and covered in blood.

“Can we,” Saphia took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment before forcing them open. “Was this the only cut like this?”

Ciri nodded. “This is the only one with the poison, yes. All the others came from thorns in the woods. This was from a sword.”

“Who was it?” Yennefer rubbed Saphia’s back comfortingly, and Jaskier tried to ignore the way the medic leaned into the touch. 

“I don’t know. They took us by surprise. I landed a couple hits in but as soon as they got Geralt they disappeared,” Ciri shook her head before Yennefer could say anything else. “He collapsed almost instantly. I had to stay with him. When I looked up they were gone.”

Jaskier and Yen exchanged uneasy glances.

“Let’s move him to a bed,” Saphia sighed. “Get him cleaned off.”

With a lot of grunting and probably a pulled muscle or two on the bard’s part, Ciri and Jaskier managed to carry an unconscious Geralt up the stairs to his bedroom. Once there, they stripped him completely and used the cloths and water Yennefer brought up to wipe the rest of the blood and grime from his body. His hair was no longer white, but that would have to stay. Bathing an unconscious witcher would cause more trouble than it was be worth. 

Jaskier and Ciri took turns cleaning up and staying with Geralt, washing the blood from their own clothes and bodies, pretending they were alright by sitting in the chairs by the bed in silence.

Eventually, Ciri couldn’t sit any longer and went downstairs to see how Saphia and Yennefer were doing. When she returned, she dutifully reported that the kitchen was back to its normal state, and Saphia was recovering in Yennefer’s bed. Netta had taken Daisy to Kara’s family’s house. She then told him she’d be going out. 

Jaskier didn’t question it, only gave her a hug and told her to be careful. He received a tight-lipped nod in response.

He knew what Ciri was going to do. But he couldn’t stop her. He didn’t think anyone could. 

He hoped she’d be successful on her hunt.

Geralt woke up several hours after Ciri left, sweat budding on his brow. Jaskier offered him cold water, which he gratefully accepted, and helped him into the bath.

“What happened?” Jaskier asked. He did his best not to look at the new scar. 

“I don’t know. My guess is another witcher.”

Jaskier’s hands stilled in Geralt’s hair. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt repeated. “There are other schools out there. It’s possible they’ve found new trials and potions to make them more powerful. But he was no typical monster, and he didn’t fight like a mage.” The bathwater sloshed around the witcher’s knees. “Ciri’s looking for him right now, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed, apologetic. 

Geralt hung his head and sighed. “She’s not allowed to die.”

“No,” the bard agreed, gently detangling a knot of white hair. “She’s not.”

They sat in silence for the rest of the bath.

The next morning, Geralt developed a fever. Yen and Saphia had removed as much of the poison as they could, but apparently enough remained to give Geralt symptoms of infection. Yennefer carefully reopened the wound with the medic’s guidance and removed the rest of it.

The fever remained.

Daisy and Netta came back to the house, though they didn’t stay long as neither was allowed to see Geralt at the witcher’s request. He didn’t want to scare them any more than he already had. Jaskier spent as much time by Geralt’s side as Yennefer would let him, pressing cold cloths to the witcher’s forehead despite his constant jittering.

And then the fever dreams began.

Jaskier was no stranger to bad dreams, and he knew Geralt wasn’t either. But the sounds and words and tears that escaped Geralt while he slept were enough to make Jaskier want to unleash hell on the continent, on everyone who had ever hurt Geralt or even thought about it.

Once the nightmares had run their course, the dreams became nonsensical. When Geralt was awake he was loopy and barely aware of where he was. Asleep, he would cling to Jaskier’s arm and call him names of people Jaskier did not know, ask if they were okay, tell them he was sorry, inquire after the location of the pineapple he sent them. Jaskier didn’t know what a pineapple was, but by this point Geralt was too far gone to enlighten him. 

Yennefer often popped in to check on Geralt. Saphia had gone back to her own home by now, but she’d left them some medicine to distribute as they felt necessary. They gave him a couple of drops in what water and food he would consume, but Jaskier couldn’t help but feel that they were doing entirely too little. 

He couldn’t lose Geralt again. He wouldn’t. 

Geralt’s death was not an option.

Ciri returned after two days, covered in blood and ash. When asked about what happened, she replied, “It was another witcher. He taunted me. It did not end well.”

No one asked for more specifics beyond that.

The day after that, the fever broke. Geralt ate and drank several glasses of water, including the medicine Yennefer gave him, which he easily swallowed down.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, once the witcher had changed into fresh clothes and the bedsheets had been swapped for clean ones, “what’s a pineapple?”

Geralt wrinkled his nose. “A fruit, I think. Why?”

“You mentioned it during a dream,” Jaskier chuckled. “I was just curious.” 

At that moment, Ciri and Yennefer entered the room. Ciri threw herself onto Geralt in a tight hug. When she pulled back she pointed a finger in his face. 

“You are not allowed to die,” she growled. 

“Neither are you,” the older witcher narrowed his eyes. “I’m assuming you went back for him?”

“I should take these downstairs and clean them,” Jaskier interrupted, holding the bucket of now dirty water and cooling cloths. If he was honest with himself, the bard slumbering deep inside him wanted to hear Ciri’s tale desperately, but he’d been sitting by Geralt’s bed for so long he thought he was beginning to lose his mind. After a slight hesitation, he bent over to press a kiss to Geralt’s still sticky forehead. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

The witcher stared up at him, golden eyes adoring and grateful and a million other things Jaskier couldn’t place. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Jaskier swallowed and forced a smile before leaving the room, Yennefer on his heels.

“He loves you, you know,” Yennefer said, in the same tone of voice that she would usually say, _Daisy shit herself again, and it’s your turn to clean it up._

Jaskier’s reaction, however, was not the same.

_“What?”_

“Do you not see it?” Yennefer wiped the countertop clean. “Everything he’s done in the past four years has reeked of it. I’m honestly not sure how he hasn’t broken down yet and knelt at your feet offering you his soul.”

He grabbed desperately at the counter, bucket on the ground, forgotten. “Yennefer, what in Melitele’s name are you _talking about?”_

She finally glanced up at him, taking in his bent frame and panicked eyes. “You did see the way he looked at you, right? You don’t look at someone like that unless-”

Jaskier shook his head. “People can look at their friends like that, that’s not unheard of.”

“Perhaps, but Geralt doesn’t.” Yennefer’s tone was blunt but her eyes were soft. “You should know that by now. He doesn’t just wear his heart on his sleeve.”

Jaskier set his jaw. 

“Why are you so upset about this anyway?” Yennefer asked, genuinely confused. “I would have thought you’d be thrilled with this revelation.”

 _Thrilled?_ Jaskier felt one foot begin bouncing. At the rate it was going, he’d be airborne in minutes. “Why the fuck would I be thrilled?”

Yennefer set the cleaning rag down, incredulous. “Because you love him back?”

Everything within Jaskier faltered. “W-what?”

She took his shaking hands, eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t have an... issue with two men lov-”

“Of course not,” Jaskier snapped, snatching his hands back. “Who do you take me for?”

“Then why…” Yennefer trailed off, violet eyes growing wide. “Oh, Jaskier.”

“What,” Jaskier snarled. His whole body was vibrating entirely too much, and the chatter of the birds outside was quickly rising to a migraine-inducing blare.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer said, heart-breakingly gentle, “Lilia’s been gone for four years.” He bristled, but she pushed forward. “It’s okay to move on, to live, alright? It’s what she would have wa-”

Jaskier cracked. Every bone, every vein, every nerve in his body cracked.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what Lilia would have wanted!” he roared. “You don’t know what it is she would have wanted because she is _dead!”_ He pointed a finger at her with so much force she unwittingly stepped back. “I will not have you using her as some fucking _plot point_ to move things along just so you can play matchmaker and mess with something you know nothing about. Her life is worth more than that. _You owe her_ more than that.” 

Yennefer swallowed but stood her ground. “She would have wanted you to be happy.”

Jaskier turned away to pick up the forgotten bucket with shaking hands. “I am happy.”

“No, you’re not,” she crossed her arms. “You’re so gods damned close, but you’re not. You’re holding yourself back out of loyalty to someone who’s no longer here to see it.”

Nausea swelled in his stomach. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Jaskier,” Yen stepped closer, “she’s dead.”

He slammed his fist down on the counter. “Gods- _fucking-_ damnit, Yen.” He whirled on her. “You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I dream of her almost every night, how, until recently, I woke up and vomited up my guts every time I did? Or have you just turned a blind eye to that, like you do everything else in your life?”

She bared her teeth cruelly. “Like what?”

“The cure for your womb.” It was a low blow, and Jaskier hated it the second it jumped from his tongue. 

Yennefer only laughed, harsh and bitter. “I’ve moved beyond that.”

“After about a hundred years.” He clenched his fists tighter.

“Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, Jaskier,” Yennefer gestured to the streaks of gray at Jaksier’s temples and in his beard, “but I had a hundred years to spare. _You_ do not.”

Bile rose in Jaskier’s throat.

“And last I checked, I’m the one who, when in denial of my feelings, had enough self-awareness to pull my head out of my own arsehole to confess it, regardless of whatever hang-ups or anxieties I had about it before.” Her nostrils flared. “ _You_ just don’t want to be happy.”

Jaskier’s heart stuttered, and Yennefer’s eyes glinted sadistically.

“Oh, that struck a chord, didn’t it?” She cocked her head in mock sympathy. “Is that it? You don’t want to be happy because you don’t think you deserve it? Because she’s dead?”

Jaskier took a shaky breath, heart thundering in his ears. “Stop.”

“Then grow up, bard,” she growled. “And get over yourself. No matter what you’ve got going on with yourself inside of your own head, Geralt loves you. And if you don’t love him back, then you’ve been stringing him along for far too long.”

Somehow, within everything that had happened from her passing out on the baker floor all those years ago, to Lilia’s death and Daisy’s birth, to Geralt arriving, and now, Jaskier had forgotten how utterly cold and callous Yennefer could be. 

“Is that really it?” Her voice softened marginally, and he thought to himself that he preferred it filled with venom. “You won’t acknowledge either of your feelings because you don’t think you deserve to be happy. Because…”

“Don’t,” Jaskier breathed.

“Lilia’s not here,” Yennefer continued anyway. “And if she’s not here, you can’t possibly be happy, right?”

If he’d been just a little less aware, Jaskier might have thought he was floating above his body. But that was too angelic of a phrase for what he felt.

He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, on the brink, one sigh away from falling down and falling forever.

“I can’t… I can’t love him,” he managed to grind out.

“Why not?”

Jaskier tried, but the words wouldn't come. “I just. Can’t.”

Yennefer sighed.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said abruptly, gathering the bucket with unsteady hands and heading to the pump outside.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer called to him. 

Almost against his own will, he stopped. He didn’t turn around.

“You’re not broken or unhappy because she’s dead.”

He ignored the pain behind his eyes and the weight on his chest. 

“You are those things because you refuse to heal.”

Jaskier promptly dropped the bucket and walked, barefoot, right out the door and into the woods.

He’d only visited Lilia’s gravesite a handful of times since she’d passed. He’d brought flowers, sure, and talked to the stone above her on occasion, but it never felt right. He had a more direct line to her in Daisy, and bringing a baby to a lonely grave felt even more wrong, so he’d never done it. But perhaps that was just his own unwillingness to fully process it. Perhaps that was just Jaskier.

The grave was simple. It laid in the forest behind the house, a couple hundred yards from the treeline in a cozy clearing. It was a mound of dirt with a body beneath it and a stone with the name “Lilia” carved into it in uneven, loving letters.

Lilia had never told Jaskier her last name. She said she didn’t need it. 

He’d agreed. After all, Jaskier had no last name either. Julian Alfred Pancratz did, but Jaskier did not.

He couldn’t bring himself to smile at the memory.

Jaskier laid down on the dead leaves and dirt beside Lilia, shifting uncomfortably until the soft ground flattened out marginally and there were no sticks or rocks protruding into his back. He turned his face to the sky. There were storm clouds gathering above him. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered.

The storm didn’t answer him. 

“Yennefer is wrong.”

A bird landed on the ground just out of arms reach and cocked its head at him. He turned slightly to face it. 

“She has to be. I can’t… I don’t love Geralt.” 

The bird picked up a stick in its beak and flew away. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Jaskier sat up, face tilted towards the sky. “I tried that and he pushed me away. That’s why I came here. Because it didn’t work.” He leaned on his hands behind him. “We had our chance. That was it.”

Distantly, thunder rumbled.

“I still love you,” he told Lilia.

The thunder stopped.

“So I can’t love him.”

Silence.

Nausea ripped through Jaskier’s chest, and he immediately leaned forward, both hands fisted in his hair, elbows resting on his pulled up knees. “I told myself I was alright,” he whispered, voice on the edge of breaking. “I had to be alright. For Daisy. For _you_.” 

The wind ran tentative fingers down his back, and Jaskier felt something dark and ugly twist in his belly.

“Well, I’m _not_ alright!” The scream ripped itself from his throat. He swung his head to look at the sky. “I’m not! You were supposed to be there for me, and keep safe from all of this. None of this would be happening if you hadn’t died.” His hands dropped to the forest floor beside him, his entire being wholly focused in anger at the clouds above. “How could you _leave me here?”_

Thunder resonated through the trees, Jaskier, and the ground below him. The storm was directly above him now. He swallowed the sob in his throat. 

“You left me,” he whimpered, eyes still upturned and searching the sky above him for some kind of a sign. “I needed you. I still need you.”

Somewhere, lightning struck.

And the rain began to fall. 

In a way, Jaskier was grateful for it. It hid his tears, as though that was enough to hide how truly broken and pathetic he was. His raw vocal cords protested against every swallow and sob that broke loose, rib cage expanding shakily and erratically as he folded himself into his own lap as much as he could.

When the forest shook with wind and thunder and rain, Jaskier shook, too.

He’d talked to Lilia. But he’d never yelled at her before. Never screamed himself hoarse beside her grave, rainwater and dirt soaking into his clothes and swirling around his bare feet. He’d never wanted to hate her so badly. And it was all because of Geralt. 

But he couldn’t hate her. He couldn’t hate the witcher, either.

“I’m-” his voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again, this time louder. “I’m not-” the words stopped a second time. Frustration welled in Jaskier’s throat. He sat up, blue eyes bloodshot and just as wet as the rest of him. He whispered, “I’m not strong enough to do this on my own.”

He was soaked to his bones now, and beginning to think he’d never be dry again. 

And then the storm broke. As if Lilia, wherever she was, had decided he’d had enough punishment for today. It brought a bitter laugh to Jaskier’s throat. 

“I miss you,” he said. “Melitele, I miss you."

The clouds began to drift away, revealing patches of starry sky. Fuck, how long had he been out here?

“You left us,” Jaskier told the retreating storm, weakly. “Don't you care?” It was a half-hearted attempt to get some kind of answer. He knew Lilia cared. She cared with every fiber of her being, in life and in death. It wasn’t her fault she died. It wasn’t anyone’s. It just was.

Jaskier ran a hand under his nose, wiping the snot trails away. The stars twinkled peacefully above him.

“How am I supposed to go on without you?” he asked. 

There was no answer, from the storm, or the forest, or the stars, or otherwise. But he hadn’t really been expecting one. 

A warm autumn wind pushed at Jaskier’s back, toward the house. He sighed and forced himself to climb to his feet. Regardless of whatever he was feeling, Geralt was still injured. The witcher needed him.

 _His_ witcher needed him, a little voice corrected in the back of his head. It sounded like Lilia’s and Yennefer’s and his own voice, all combined. 

He would sort his emotions out later. There were more pressing matters at hand.

The stars gazed mournfully as he trudged back to the house and the family there that waited for him.


	6. Chapter 6

When he arrived back at the house, Jaskier was greeted by Geralt and Yennefer in the kitchen, featuring an especially angry Daisy.

“Where were you?” She demanded. 

He blinked, taken aback. “Daisy, honey-”

“Where _were_ you _,_ Dada?”

“I…” he sighed and knelt down to be at her eye level. “I went to go see a friend, Daisy.” His eyes flickered to Geralt. The witcher sipped his tea, elbows on the table, expression carefully blank.

“What friend?” Daisy cocked her head, confused. 

Yennefer raised her eyebrows as if to say, _Yes, Jaskier, what friend? Do tell us; we’d love to hear._

He clenched his jaw. “Just someone I know.”

Daisy crossed her arms, evidently growing bored with that tangent. “Why are you all yucky?”

Jaskier glanced down at his dirt and pine needle covered feet and wet clothes. “I…” 

The child narrowed her eyes. 

_Well, honesty is key._

“I laid down in the dirt. In the rain.” 

Daisy’s face lit up considerably, but Yen’s darkened in understanding. Geralt’s remained blank.

“That sounds fun!”

“Ah, er, not exactly,” Jaskier winced. His throat still hurt. He hoped it didn’t look like he’d been crying.

“Oh,” Daisy said, disappointed. “Why are your eyes r-”

“Alright!” Jaskier interrupted, shoving down his panic. _So much for that one._ “How about you come with me upstairs and we’ll get ready for bed together, hm? And I’ll tell you all about it, I promise.”

“Okay!” She grinned and Jaskier felt himself sag in relief. 

Daisy ran to Yennefer first, pressing her face against the mage’s cheek in a four-year-old-child approximation of a kiss, and then did the same to Geralt. A small smile played across the witcher’s lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Good night!” She called, before carefully climbing up the stairs, Jaskier trailing behind with muddy feet and a guiding hand behind her in case she tripped. 

“Good night, shark,” Yennefer called back.

Geralt said nothing. It made Jaskier’s stomach twist uneasily.

But then Daisy stumbled, and all of his attention went into reaching forward to keep her from falling face-first on the stairs and the feeling faded.

Once they reached the top of the stairs, Daisy scampered into Jaskier’s room immediately, managing to crawl up onto his bed before he even passed through the doorway. She began telling him all about her adventures with Netta and Kara, telling him about the games they played and how nice Kara’s kitty was and how she thought they should get one too because she liked kitties and kitties were the funnest and bestest of all the animals. 

Jaskier laughed, using his soaked shirt to wipe off his feet. “I’ll think about it, love.” 

She beamed. “Yay!”

They then moved to Daisy’s room, where Jaskier struggled to fit her into her nightgown, not because it was small, but because she wouldn't stop wiggling the entire time. Eventually, the nightgown was on and they sat in bed together. 

It was weird for Jaskier, to be back on the bed he and Lilia had shared. But he was doing his best to disassociate it from those memories. It was Daisy’s bed now, and that’s what mattered most.

“Dad,” the child interrupted his thoughts, “who’d you visit?” 

“Ah,” Jaskier put his arm around her. He thought about it: at some point, Daisy deserved to know the truth. So far, she’d been young and oblivious enough to not notice her lack of a mother, and her experiences with other children and families had been fairly limited at this point. She was only four; Jaskier couldn’t expect her to have figured it out on her own by now.

The candle on the bedstand flared and Jaskier felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. He hadn’t talked to anyone else about it but telling Daisy now felt right. He’d been quietly planning this moment for four years, at least when he could stomach the thought of it. He could do this.

“Dad.” A little finger poked his side.

Jaskier blinked. “Sorry, dear.”

“Who did you visit?” Daisy repeated.

“Well, Daisy,” Jaskier took a deep breath and angled himself to face her a little better. “Have I ever told you the story of how I came to this town?”

She shook her head.

“For many years,” he began, allowing his voice to take on a mystical air, “I traveled the continent with Geralt, going on adventures.” 

Daisy perked up. She knew about this.

“One day, though, we had a big fight, and decided to part ways.” Jaskier smiled sadly at the memory of that day on the mountain. It had been around a decade since then and it felt like a lifetime. “So-”

“What did you fight about?”

Jaskier chuckled, sore throat protesting the sound. “That’s another story, little shark.”

Daisy opened her mouth to protest but Jaskier tapped her knee with a finger and cut her off. “So, I kept traveling, and eventually I came here. And as soon as I came into town I saw a beautiful woman standing outside a bakery, holding several baskets of bread.”

Little hands twisted in the sheets. “Our bakery?”

“Yes, our bakery.” His stomach pinched, but he continued on. “Immediately, I loved her. I offered to help her carry some bread, but she accused me of wanting to steal it. Can you imagine that? Me, stealing anything?”

A glance at Daisy revealed Jaskier’s signature shit-eating grin on her lips. “Yes.”

“Daisy!” Jaskier reprimanded, squeezing her shoulders and laughing. “How dare you.”

She giggled. Something within Jaskier eased.

“Well, I didn’t steal anything, and instead she told me to come back the next day and I could help her then. So I did. I helped her carry bread almost every morning until she finally gave in and fell in love with me.” Jaskier clenched his jaw for a moment. “And for a long time, we were very happy.”

“Is she the friend?” Daisy asked.

“I’m getting to that, dear.”

The child huffed and fell quiet again.

“Soon, Yennefer came to live with us, and so did Netta. We had a big, happy family.” Warmth rushed between his ribs. “But something was missing.” He lightly tapped the tip of Daisy’s nose with his pointer finger. “And that something was you.”

She giggled and batted his hand away. “Nooo.”

“Yes, you,” Jaskier tightened the arm around her. “The day that Li- your mother and I found out we were going to have you was the happiest day of our lives.”

It was true. Lilia had woken him with morning sickness for a couple of weeks in a row before admitting, in a haze of excitement and terror, that she had missed her previous two cycles. Jaskier had pressed his cheek to her belly and cried.

He wasn’t crying now, but he knew that it was only a matter of time.

“What happened next?” Daisy asked.

“Well,” Jaskier swallowed. “Do you remember what happened to the birdie we found in the backyard?”

She nodded, somber. “It died.”

He exhaled shakily. “Well, sometimes, when mothers give birth, bad things happen. And when these bad things happen,” he brushed a finger along her cheek and held her eyes with his, “it’s no one’s fault. Nothing can stop it from happening. It’s just how destiny works, and we’ve got no choice but to accept it.”

Daisy’s brown eyes welled with tears, sensing where this was going and picking up on her father’s own emotions. “Did she die?”

“Yes,” Jaskier brushed away a tear, feeling his own begin to gather, “she did. But _you_ lived.” 

Daisy pressed a hand to his cheek. One of his tears rolled down her finger. “Why’re you crying?”

He sniffled and poked her belly playfully. “Why are _you_ crying?” She giggled, a trail of snot already dripping from her nose. He wiped it away with his sleeve. “I’m crying because it makes me sad to think about, Daisy. I miss and love your mother very, very much, even now. But that’s alright,” he said, pulling her closer. “It’s normal to miss people who mean a lot to you. It’s good to be sad, sometimes, dear heart.” He gently pinched her knee. “It means you’re living.”

“I don’t like being sad.” Daisy’s lower lip wobbled. 

“No one does,” Jaskier told her. “But it’s good for you.”

Her tears began flowing in earnest. “But I don’t _want_ to.”

He sighed and held her to his chest, hands rubbing circles on her back as she sobbed into his shirt. Four-year-old Daisy cried more than three-year-old Daisy did, Jaskier noted, though she didn’t scream quite as much. She was much more emotional now.

But he didn’t blame her. He hated being sad too. 

Soon enough, the tears stopped. Jaskier’s shirt was, for the second time that night, thoroughly soaked, but he found he didn’t mind. He loved her too much to mind.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He mopped up what he could of the snot before it became a permanent fixture on her face. “Don’t you feel a little better now?”

Daisy nodded, sleepily. It’d been a long day, and she’d fully cried herself out.

“Well, then,” Jaskier rearranged her so that she was lying on the bed instead of him, but kept her pressed to his side, “that’s what I was doing tonight. I was sad so I went to go visit your mother in the forest. To cry a little.” It was, admittedly, a dumbed-down version of what he’d really done, but it was sufficient for Daisy. “Sometimes, it’s nice to do that.”

She blinked, heavy eyelids weighing her down. “She’s in the forest?”

“Part of her is,” Jaskier said. They could deal with the schematics another day. “The rest of her is up with the stars.”

“Can I visit her?” The words were mumbled and slurred, but they made Jaskier’s heart clench painfully.

“Of course, dear heart,” he murmured. “I’m sure she would love that. Just as she loves you.”

The forgotten candle flickered in agreement.

Daisy only hummed and nestled against Jaskier’s breast, ear pressed above his heart. It was a matter of minutes before she fell asleep.

Jaskier dropped a kiss on her forehead and blew out the candle before he left.

Yennefer was in the kitchen alone.

“Where…” Jaskier cleared his throat. “Where’s Geralt?”

“He went to bed.” The mage took a sip of wine but didn’t look at him. “How’s Daisy?”

“Sleeping.” He sat on the bench across from her, where they always sat. “I, ah, told her about Lilia.”

Yennefer’s head jerked up. “You _what_?”

“I told her about Lilia. I didn’t go into too much detail,” he rubbed at his jaw, at the beard sporting more and more gray as the days went on, “but I explained to her that her mother died and that’s where I was tonight. Visiting her grave.”

Yen’s violet eyes softened, but her face did not. “Oh.”

“I…” Jaskier put his elbows on the table and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Yen. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. You were just trying to help.”

She hummed.

“And… I think you might be right.” 

Her eyebrows jumped and Jaskier hurried to clarify. “About Lilia. Wanting me to be happy.”

Yennefer hummed again.

“I was scared and angry and I lashed out at you because of it and that’s not right.” He pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling the blunt edge of a post-breakdown headache looming. “So, for what it’s worth, I apologize. And I want to thank you,” he set his hands down on the table, close to but not touching hers, “for standing by me all these years. You can be an ass and really, horribly rude, but… you’re a good friend. My best friend, perhaps, besides Geralt.”

A bittersweet smile stretched across her lips. “But Geralt’s something else.” 

Jaskier’s words stumbled. He didn’t know anymore. He hadn’t actually thought about it since Yen had accused him of it earlier. 

Neither of them said a word.

The fire crackled loudly.

“You know, he heard us arguing,” Yennefer said, and every one of Jaskier’s ribs cracked.

_“What?”_

“Neither of us was exactly quiet,” she explained, sheepishly, “and even if we had been, he has enhanced hearing. He would have heard us either way.”

Jaskier pushed back his bench, heartbeat thundering through every cell in his body. “I have to- I have to go talk to him, _fuck_ , I-”

Yennefer’s hand was on his wrist before he could walk away. She pinned it to the table. “Don’t you dare,” she growled.

Jaskier sat down heavily before he knew what he was doing. 

“He very pointedly did _not_ want to talk about or to you,” she said. “Wouldn’t even tell Ciri what exactly he’d heard or what he was thinking. The girls eventually gave up and went to bed early, but Daisy and I stayed with him. He’s,” she inhaled sharply and released Jaskier’s wrist, “he’s hurting. If you go talk to him now he’ll shut you out completely.” She wrapped the wine goblet in a strangling grasp between her hands. “You have to give him time. He did the same for you, after all.”

Jaskier gritted his teeth, anxiety still coursing through his veins. “Yes, but I-”

“What would you even tell him? Would you tell him you love him?” Yennefer asked, jaw clenched. “Do you love him?”

And there it was. The question of the night.

The question of the last thirty years, if he was being honest with himself.

Even the fire fell quiet, and Jaskier distantly remembered to breathe.

“I don’t…” a million images and memories flashed behind his eyes, “I don’t know.”

“Then find out,” Yen shook her head. “If not for you or for him, for me. I’m tired of this shit.” At Jaskier’s confused expression, she sighed. “You’ve been dancing around each other since before I was even in the picture, bard. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Just figure it out. I’m going to bed.”

She left Jaskier at the table, head in his hands, world spinning. Her empty goblet remained in front of him.

He let his forehead thud down on the wood. There had been a time in which he’d really thought he loved Geralt, in the early years of traveling with him. But he’d been twenty and stupid, willing and able to fall for anyone who spared him a second glance. Geralt just happened to stick around.

He’d asked Geralt to run away with him, on that mountain with Yennefer and Borch so long ago. To the coast, he’d said, and if Geralt had known what that’d meant, he’d shown no sign of it.

_Just trying to work out what pleases me._

Melitele, here he was ten years later and he still didn’t know what that was. 

There was no logical answer as to why Jaskier couldn’t love Geralt besides the one that Yennefer had so brutally laid out to him: happiness before had only existed with Lilia, and she was dead. It was impossible without her.

There are different types of happiness, though, Jaskier mused, rubbing his eyes. Happiness with Lilia had been early mornings, too hot bread, and a warm body pressed to his in the cold of the night. Happiness with Lilia had been effortless, streamlined, and, most of the time, had felt too good to be true. It was the kind you only felt once in your lifetime, your own perfect little fairytale until it ended. 

Happiness with Geralt was… well.

Happiness with Geralt was chasing after naked toddlers, and scrubbing dirt from already raw skin, and a rare smile in a sea of scowls. Happiness with Geralt didn’t bubble the way it did with Lilia; it was lying in wait, dozing quietly until you noticed its presence. It was a hug so tight it bruised. 

There was no right or wrong between the two, Jaskier realized. One wasn’t better or worse than the other; they were just different.

And one of them was no longer a possibility.

Jaskier opened his eyes to a pitch-black kitchen. The embers of the fire were faint, barely strong enough to illuminate the ashes around them.

“I don’t know if I love Geralt,” he whispered to the empty room. “But I think I could.”

The embers glowed brighter and Jaskier closed his eyes.

He woke in the same position, cheek stuck to the table, back aching like it never had before. Something rustled behind him and he whirled in his seat.

Geralt stood at the kitchen counter, back to Jaskier, tearing himself a piece of bread. 

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Jaskier allowed his eyes to roam over broad shoulders before the events of the previous day came flooding back to him. “Oh, no, I-”

The witcher turned to face him, bread in one hand, the other resting on the counter behind him. Even in the soft morning light, he looked… exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier blurted, “for whatever you heard yesterday. I- I didn’t mean-”

Geralt waved him off with the bread. “I understand. You’re tired and hurting and recovering. You still love her. It’s okay.”

Jaskier gaped. “What?”

The witcher pushed off the counter. “Don’t worry about it, Jaskier.”

He walked out the door and headed to the garden, the bard speechless behind him.

“Fuck,” Jaskier swore.

At the garden, Geralt stared at the bread still in his hands. He stood motionless for a moment before releasing his shoulders in a sigh and tossing it to the ground beside him.

A sharp ache began to swell between Jaskier’s ribs. 

Fuck was right.

Jaskier spent the day at the bakery with Daisy. They’d missed each other while Geralt was sick, and with both Jaskier and Netta otherwise occupied, the bakery had been closed. Netta had still taken care of deliveries, though, and Jaskier didn’t know if he’d ever been more thankful. If he’d had to deliver bread after a night like that… he didn’t know what he would have done.

Instead, he got to spend the day in his favorite place, with his favorite person, doing his second favorite thing.

Music would always be his first passion. But bread had become a close second.

Jaskier head decided earlier in the morning that Daisy needed to have more exposure to the public and people outside of her own little found-family. As a solution, he would start making a point of bringing her to the bakery every once in a while, to introduce her to whatever customers came in and get her out of the house.

Currently, she stood on a stool beside him, abusing a poor zucchini with a grater. Jaskier had made her promise not to cut herself, and she’d agreed, but her method of attack was more literal attack than anything else. Even then, the zucchini had only taken minimal damage in the seven minutes she’d been at it. Oh, well. She’d be fine. 

The bell above the door rang, and Daisy’s eyes shot up. Jaskier just barely managed to snag the grater from her hands before she shaved off her own fingertips.

“Madam Lisko!” He greeted, a practiced smile lining his lips. “How are you?”

The old woman bustled into the shop with the energy of a jack russel terrier and the dexterity of an elephant, large basket and larger bottom bumping into the door frame. Jaskier suppressed a laugh. 

She set down her basket. “Oh, hello James-”

“Jaskier.”

“-I’m doing quite wonderfully, thank you. I’ll have two loaves of sourdough, please.” Crinkled eyes lit up at the sight of Daisy, and her entire demeanor softened. “Why, who is this?”

Daisy clutched the zucchini to her chest as if that would protect her from Madam Lisko. Jaskier rubbed a hand on his daughter’s back encouragingly. 

“Go ahead, dear. Introduce yourself.”

“I’m Daisy,” said Daisy in a tiny voice.

Madam Lisko nodded her head softly. “My name is Madam Lisko. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daisy. How old are you?”

“Four.” Daisy shuffled closer to Jaskier and he huffed a laugh.

“We’re just starting to meet new people, aren’t we, love?”

Daisy bobbed her head in agreement, already beginning to brighten a little. 

“Well, that’s wonderful!” Madam Lisko beamed, brushing back a lock of gray hair. “You know,” her attention turned to Jaskier, “she’s almost of age to begin schooling.”

He nodded, tight-lipped. Madam Lisko had run Tenby’s local school for as long as anyone remembered. He and Lilia had planned on their child attending at some point, but Jaskier had forgotten about it. The thought of Daisy spending her whole day alone with strangers made him queasy. 

“Schooling?” Daisy repeated, confused.

“School is where you go to learn,” Madam Lisko explained. “Education and learning are very important for all people, especially women like us.” She winked at the child and Daisy giggled.

“I’ve learned things,” she said. “This is,” she stared at her hand, tongue poking out in concentration, “five. Five fingers.” She looked up at her father proudly, all five stubby fingers outstretched.

Jaskier’s chest loosened. He hadn’t even realized how tense he’d been. 

“Yes, that’s five, darling, good job.” Jaskier took her hand a pressed a kiss to her palm. She giggled and pulled away.

Madam Lisko raised a thin eyebrow. “Well, I’m impressed, Jarrett-”

“Jaskier.”

She waved a large hand in dismissal. “You’ve done a good job.”

“I can read, too!” Daisy bragged, sensing this as an opportunity for more praise. Then she made a face. “Sometimes.”

Jaskier chuckled. “We have this old book of various folk tales and other things-”

“Oh, I know the book,” Madame Lisko interrupted. “I was the one who gave it to Lilia when she first moved here.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows threatened to crawl off his face. “You were?”

“Oh, yes,” she chuckled heartily. She bent a little to match Daisy’s height. “I knew your mother when she was very young. In fact, I helped her learn how to read.” She glanced up at the bard, who was still gaping. “I’m glad that old book is being put to use. Warms an old woman’s heart.”

“How old _are_ you?” Daisy asked.

Jaskier winced, but the bakery filled with booming laughter. 

“That, dear Daisy, is something you will never know,” Madame Lisko said. 

Daisy’s face scrunched up. “Why not?”

“Because that’s for me to know, and me alone.” 

“Why?”

“It’s a secret, that’s all.”

“Why is it a secret?”

The old teacher sighed. “She really is four, isn’t she?”

Daisy wrinkled her nose. “Hey!”

“Yes, she is,” Jaskier turned around to take out the two loaves of bread from the cabinet behind him. “She’s a… vivacious child.”

“Spitting image of her mother, too,” Madame Lisko mused, accepting the bread. She handed him a couple of coins in return. 

“Yes,” Jaskier repeated, ruffling Daisy’s curls. His stomach swooped. “She is.”

The child grabbed his wrist and narrowed her eyes at him. He chuckled.

“Well, Daisy,” Madame Lisko placed the bread in her basket and smiled warmly, “it was a pleasure to meet you.” She leveled blunt eyes at Jaskier, mouth flat. “Take care of her, Jaskier. That girl is a treasure.”

Old age be damned, he swallowed nervously. “I will.”

“Good.” She nodded, sunny demeanor suddenly back. “I’ll see you at school, someday, Daisy! Goodbye!”

“Bye,” Daisy called at her retreating back. 

The door slammed shut behind her. Jaskier exhaled.

“Well, little shark, looks like you’ve got work on that zucchini still, hm?” He patted her back and handed her the grater. “Be careful.”

Daisy accepted it eagerly. “I will.”

In the end, Jaskier set Daisy down for a nap in his office and finished grating the zucchini on his own. A few more customers came in, all with similar reactions to the child, and it quickly wore out both father and daughter. Jaskier was ready for his nap, too.

The day soon ended. Daisy woke up from her nap and “helped” Jaskier wrap up some bread to prepare for the next day. They closed up the bakery together and walked back to the house, Daisy's little hand wrapped firmly around two of Jaskier’s fingers.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Everyone was tired from the events of the last few days.

Well, except Daisy. Daisy was doing fine. 

Her steady drone of commentary and stories about her day at the bakery and anything else she could think of soothed Jaskier’s anxiety. He had no idea what he was anxious about - _Geralt, it’s Geralt, it’s the man sitting to your left, stiff and exhausted and trying so hard to pretend like he’s alright but he’s not, he’s not and you know it, and it hurts, dear goddess, it hurts-_ but it took all he had to breathe and keep eating. 

Jaskier retired to his room early. Yennefer clenched her jaw but agreed to put Daisy to bed. Ciri and Netta agreed.

Geralt gave only a tired smile and Jaskier all but ran away.

Jaskier didn’t dream that night. He woke to a suffocating weight on his chest, despite the windows thrown wide open. 

He didn’t want to think about what that meant.

But he lurched out of bed anyway, and headed downstairs to eat breakfast and spend the day pretending not to notice Geralt pulling into himself with every step he took. 

It went on like this for almost two weeks.

The door to the bakery swung open violently, and without even looking up, Jaskier knew who it was.

He sighed, pouring the coins he’d been counting back into the box beneath the counter. He’d known this was coming at some point. It was surprising, honestly, that it’d taken her so long.

“So.” The young witcher perched on the counter, facing him. “What’s new with you, Jaskier?”

He sighed warily. “Just get on with it, Ciri.”

“I’m not here to yell at you,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Yennefer’s done enough of that already.

Jaskier’s mouth fell open. “...Oh.”

She shifted on the counter. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure.”

“In all the years I have known Geralt, he has always had dark circles under his eyes.”

He wrinkled his nose. That was not at all what he had been expecting. “What?”

“He’s always had them. They went away a few times, usually when we were at Kaer Morhen and he could actually sleep instead of just meditating but…” she shrugged. “The longest they’ve ever stayed away is these past few years he’s been here.”

Jaskier exhaled. “And now-”

“They’re back.”

“-they’re back,” he finished lamely. “Right. Thanks.”

Ciri cocked her head, loose bun at the nape of her neck swinging with the movement. Her hair was so light that sometimes Jaskier thought she really could have been Geralt’s child. “‘Thanks?’”

“Thanks for the information. It’s good to know,” Jaskier waved his hands, gesturing at everything and nothing at the same time, “that he’s no longer sleeping and it’s likely my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was,” the witcher said. Her voice was surprisingly even.

Jaskier sighed, defeated. “But it is.”

“I assume so, yes.” She stared out the window.

Something underneath Jaskier’s skin began to itch. “Was that all you wanted to tell me? There’s no big lecture or scolding or whatever you wanted to do?”

She scoffed. “I’m the last person who should be lecturing you about love, Jaskier. If anything, I would think Netta would have beaten me to it.”

“Netta and I don’t… talk about that kind of stuff.” Jaskier shifted his weight from foot to foot. “That’s not either of our styles.”

The scar on Ciri’s face stretched with a raised eyebrow. “No? But neither of you ever shut up.”

“Perhaps,” Jaskier felt a wry smile pull at his lips, even as something else entirely tugged at the pit of his stomach. “But when have you ever heard us say anything truly about ourselves? Or how we’re doing? Or feeling?” She opened her mouth to speak but he talked over her. “Ciri, what’s the most personal thing you could tell me about either me or Netta?”

Ciri blinked. “Netta… is dating Kara. And I think… when you and Geralt first met you had ... bread. In your pants.”

Jaskier spluttered. “What?”

“Although, Geralt told me that so it doesn’t count, does it?” She mused. 

“Geralt _told_ you that?”

“Ah,” Ciri rubbed the back of her neck. “He’s told me a lot of things. That one’s not really personal, but it’s what came to mind.”

Jaskier was stunned. “He… remembered that?”

The witcher scrunched up her face at him. “Of course he remembered that, what are you talking about? Jaskier,” she leaned in, an accusatory finger pointed at his chest, “you are the only person to have willingly stayed in Geralt’s life. I am a Child Surprise. Yennefer has the djinn spell. Vesemir and the other witchers come and go. You _chose_ to stay.” She sat back. “Of course he remembered that.”

Jaskier had no response to that. He didn’t know what to say. 

“So, to answer your question, no,” Ciri said. “I don’t have a big lecture for you, nor am I going to yell at you. I simply think you should think about how much you mean to Geralt and how much he means to you.” She sighed, mindlessly scratching her forearm. “Whatever you two are doing right now, it’s hurting both of you. His eye bags may be back but you don’t look great, either.”

Jaskier snorted humorlessly. “Thank you, Ciri.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, genuinely sounding like she meant it. “I’m always here to help.”

The bard blinked at her. He and Ciri had grown closer over the years, but he still didn’t know how to react to a lot of the things she said. Now was not an exception.

“I’ll let you get back to your coin counting, then.” She hopped off the counter. “I’ve got to go make sure Geralt’s eaten today. See you at dinner, Jaskier,” she said, and just like that, she was gone.

“What do I mean to Geralt and what does he mean to me?” Jaskier grumbled to the empty bakery. “What is that supposed to mean? He’ll barely look at me.”

The more Jaskier thought about it, though, the more Ciri’s words made sense. He’d already decided that he was happy with Geralt. He supposed he could love him, if given the chance. 

So what was stopping him?

He opened the coin drawer and began counting again. 

That night, Jaskier dreamt of Lilia, but it wasn’t a dream he’d ever had before.

In his dream, he glided down the hallway of the upper floor of the house. The door to the day room creaked open. An invitation.

Lilia was sitting in their bed, the book of folktales and myths in her lap.

The room was exactly as it had been when she was alive. The hearth crackled cheerily, warming the room and overpowering the darkness beyond the windows.

He tentatively slid into bed beside her. She hummed in acknowledgment but remained glued to the book.

“What are you doing here, Lilia?” he whispered. 

She rested her head on his shoulder with a chuckle. “I live here, dear Dandelion.”

“No, you don’t,” he said. He felt like he should have been more scared, but her presence was so comforting he couldn’t bring himself to be. “You died.”

“Mm,” she shifted to press closer to him. “I got better.”

Jaskier put his arm around her and stared into the fire. “Okay.”

They remained like that for some time. Jaskier melted into her, unsure of the thoughts racing in his head.

“Lilia,” he began. “Can I ask you something?”

She set the book down and twisted to face him. “Of course.”

Her dark brown eyes were much lighter than they’d been in real life.

“If you were- if I were-” the words stumbled. He shook his head. “No, this is stupid. You’re _dead.”_

Half of Lilia’s mouth turned up in a smile. “Yes. I am.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Why are any of us here?” she questioned. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I…”

“Mm.” She nodded. “You've always had a way with words.”

Jaskier broke.

He wrapped her fully in his arms, face pressed into curly hair. The tears ran from his eyes as the sobs shook his body, aching with a pain he’d felt since she’d bled out at the foot of their bed. She stroked his back and made comforting noises until his breathing finally calmed.

“I miss you.” The words were barely wisps of breath against her.

“I know,” she said back into his chest. “I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this without you.” 

“I don’t know,” she said and traced the length of his spine with light fingers. “I think you’re doing alright on your own. You’ve got everyone else. You’re not alone.”

He shook his head. “I feel alone.”

She hummed. “That’s alright.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“About Geralt?” she asked.

He stiffened. “Geralt?”

“Yes, Geralt,” she pulled back to look him in the eyes. The light brown had begun to border on amber. “What else?”

His face fell and he avoided her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You should tell him how you feel,” she said. She gripped his chin. “And if you don’t know how you feel, you should tell him that, too.” 

“But I…” Jaskier searched her eyes, but for what, he didn’t know. “I love you.”

She shook his head for him. “That’s neither here nor there, Jaskier. You can love me forever and still find your way with someone else.”

His bottom lip trembled. “But I don’t want to.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. Her expression was warm and kind and loving and Jaskier hated it. “You do.”

Fuck.

He did.

He did want to find his way with someone else. He wanted to find his way with Geralt.

He wanted to wake up beside him every morning, run fingers through his hair and beard, let Geralt’s shirts dry his tears, light the fire behind golden eyes.

He’d wanted that for a long time.

Jaskier missed Lilia. He always would. One of his old lovers had told him that every person he loved would always take a part of him with them when they left, if they left. Perhaps Lilia would always have the biggest part.

But Geralt had part of him, too. Had carried it with him across the continent and back. Continued to hold it tight to his chest and his lips and his heart.

Perhaps Lilia was right. He could love her and still move on. 

He clenched his jaw, hard. “So what do I do?”

“You’ll figure it out.” She smiled at him with gold eyes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He closed his eyes and leaned into it, finding himself unable to do anything else.

When his eyelids lifted, he was back in his own bed, in a dark, empty room. 

He didn’t cry, but he didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

Jaskier was tired. He was so fucking tired. That dream with Lilia had thrown him for a loop, and he’d barely managed to get through the first half of the day.

 _You’ll figure it out._ Gods.

Jaskier didn’t know if it had really been Lilia in his dream. He wouldn’t rule it out, but he didn’t know if he was spiritual enough to believe it was. It made sense as a figment of imagination, though. It didn’t answer any of his questions.

That wasn’t true. Lilia had told him to move on. If it really had been her.

Jaskier sighed. This would all be so much more bearable if he wasn’t awake.

He threw the dough down on the counter, pressing the heels of his hands into it in rhythmic, methodical motions. He could probably do this in his sleep. It wouldn’t be that hard. He could just find a stool so he wouldn’t fall over and close his eyes, hands still moving, knead and lift and knead and lift and knead and lift and- 

The bell above the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Hello,” Jaskier looked up, hands still wrist-deep in dough. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” the boy couldn’t have been more than 17, but his voice rang deep. “I, ah, was wondering what kind of sweet bread you have? And what you would recommend?”

Jaskier opened his mouth to respond, but the kid talked over him, anxiety riding high in the way he twisted his fingers together. 

“It’s for my neighbor, she’s really nice and did a huge favor for me the other day, so I just wanted to, uh, give her something back?” He rocked on the balls of his feet. “And I figured, you know, everyone likes sweet bread, and I’ve always loved the stuff my aunt gets from here, so, I just thought-”

Jaskier chuckled. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Florian.” The kid stuck out a hand for Jaskier to shake but then noticed the giant glob of dough still moving in the bard’s hands and yanked it back. He cleared his throat. “The medic- Saphia- she’s my aunt.”

“Oh! That’s right!” Recognition flared in the back of Jaskier’s exhausted mind. He’d met the boy, but he and Saphia weren’t particularly close themselves, so it had been a while. “I’m Jaskier. Sorry about that, I didn’t recognize you. You’ve grown.”

Florian pushed back his mop of light brown hair with an unreasonably large hand and grimaced. “Yeah…” 

“So,” Jaskier set the dough aside, satisfied it’d been kneaded enough. “What does this neighbor of yours like?”

“I…” Florian sighed. “I have no idea.” 

The bard couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Alright, we’ll figure it out.”

After a couple minutes of talking, Jaskier and Florian came to the conclusion that the pretty neighbor would most appreciate a sweet bread with apples and chopped almonds. It was one of Geralt’s favorites, not that Florian knew that of course. But the thought made Jaskier smile. 

_Oh._

He must have made a face at that because Florian cocked his head. “Are you alright, Mr. Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinked then snorted at the formality. “Yes, sorry. I got distracted. Here,” he said, handing the kid the wrapped loaf.

“Oh, how much do I owe you?” Florian began fishing around in his pockets, but Jaskier stopped him.

“Don’t worry about it. Your aunt just helped us out with… something,” Jaskier rubbed his jaw to hide a wince, “so consider it payment. For letting us steal her for a while.”

Florian’s eyebrows furrowed. “That was you? She wouldn’t tell me what happened, so-”

“Yes, well, we’re better now, thanks.” The image of Geralt bleeding out on the kitchen floor was all too vivid in Jaskier’s mind. “Your aunt’s a good woman.” He ran a hand through dark brown hair. “And you’re a good kid. Now, go get that girl.”

A blush rose on the kid’s cheeks. “I didn’t- I didn’t say anything about getting anyone.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Oh, trust me, you didn’t have to. Now get out of my bakery.”

Florian smiled sheepishly. “Thanks, Mr. Jaskier.”

“Get her some flowers, too!” 

“I will!” the kid called back, hand already on the doorknob. 

He closed the door gently behind him. Jaskier sighed.

It’d been too long since he’d done something like that for someone, at least with that kind of motivation. It used to be a bi-weekly occurrence for him, even when he was traveling with Geralt, always gifting something or serenading someone in the hopes of not spending the night alone. And then he’d met Lilia, and he’d kept doing it, leaving wildflowers in little places he knew she’d find, saving the best plum for her, playing any line or chord or song that made him think of her. Netta had once lectured him about love languages and how hers was verbal affection, but his was random gifts and acts of servitude. He’d scoffed at her, but thinking on it now, he supposed it was true.

_Helping Yennefer cook, bringing Netta breakfast at the bakery even when she’s more than capable of finding her own, giving Daisy the best piece of fruit, washing Ciri’s bedding because she somehow never learned how, bathing Geralt, tending to Geralt’s wounds, holding Geralt after nightmares, cleaning Geralt’s weapons after a hunt when he’s too tired to do it on his own, baking Geralt’s favorite bread, Geralt Geralt Geralt Geralt-_

Jaskier realized he’d been staring at the door since Florian left. He had no idea how much time had passed. 

His lungs ached when he took a shaky breath. Perhaps it hadn’t been that long since he’d done something for someone out of love. Perhaps it was time he did it again.

He gathered the forgotten dough in his hands and began to shape it into a loaf. He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> six down. only one more to go :)  
> come screech at (or with) me in the comments or on[tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

Jaskier spent the rest of the day planning.

Everything he would give to or do for Geralt needed to have some attached sentimental value. That way, he could build in intensity until his message could no longer be ignored.

What was his message, you may ask?

Well. He’d get there eventually. For now, he just needed Geralt to forgive him.

Jaskier’s planning list looked like this:

_Acts of servitude_

  * _baths_
  * _help in garden_
  * _clean armor/weapons_
  * _tend to wounds_
  * _bake bread_



_Gifts_

  * _hair/bath oils and salts_
  * _flowers_
  * _clothing_
  * _apple/other fruit trees (!!!)_



Jaskier wiped the smudged charcoal off of his fingertips. His usual plan of action was generally nothing more than a spur of the moment impulse and _hope,_ so by those standards, he was doing well. It wasn’t an overly comprehensive list, but it was good enough. Most of the things were what Jaskier had been doing before Geralt had begun avoiding him, but hopefully, that wouldn’t matter too much.

The apothecary on the other side of Tenby made incredible hair and bath items, he remembered. Perhaps it would be best to start there. 

The shop was run by an older couple who Jaskier had vaguely known his whole stay in Tenby. Their relationship had never gone beyond acquaintances or perhaps casual friends, but in a town as small as theirs, there were some things everyone just knew about. And, as old as Jaskier may have been, they still had a decade or two on him. It was enough for them to be overly familiar and mildly invasive in the way that older people tended to be.

“Goddess, is that Jaskier?” Mir asked, smirking over a mountain of vials. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen you over here. How’s the brood? Collected any more?”

Jafra snorted, thin arms stirring a large bowl of scented salt with a spoon. “If he had, all his hair would have fallen out by now. There’s only one child in the house, and she’s already made him go grey.”

“Well, good afternoon to you, too.” Jaskier’s fingers itched to run through his hair, but he kept them by his side. He rather liked the gray streaks, but that hadn’t made the comment sting any less.

Geralt had told him once that he liked the gray. Well, he’d said it made him look more like the distinguished professor he’d liked to pretend to be in his late twenties, but that was a compliment coming from Geralt. 

The itching in Jaskier’s fingers calmed.

“Oh, ignore her,” Mir chuckled. “The woman went gray in her thirties and never recovered. I think your hair looks very nice.”

Jafra smacked her husband’s arm with the spoon. “What, and mine doesn’t?”

Jaskier laughed as Mir spluttered and began to argue his way out. He’d always imagined that he and Lilia would end up like Mir and Jafra if they made it to old age. Fifty really wasn’t old, no matter what Netta and his gray streaks tried to tell him. 

Lilia hadn’t even made it to fifty, but perhaps Jaskier still had a chance at this, at light-hearted bickering, and loving glances, and soft touches until the dirt opened up and swallowed him whole. Perhaps he could still have that, even after all this time.

Which reminded him-

“I hate to interrupt your lovely bonding moment, but I am here to spend some coin, if either of you are interested.”

Both humans perked up, and Mir walked around the counter toward the walls of jars and vials. The older couple made a truly impressive amount of products, more than Tenby itself could possibly need, but the traders it brought were good for the town. They helped keep the economy moving. 

“What is it you’re looking for?” Mir asked, voice slipping into a professional drawl.

“Bath salts and perhaps some hair oil. Light scents, nothing too strong,” Jaskier said. His fingers tapped nervously against his thigh.

“Ah, light scents for a sensitive nose, perhaps?” The older man raised a bushy eyebrow.

Jafra’s significantly thinner eyebrows followed suit. “A witcher nose, perhaps?”

Jaskier forced himself to chuckle and roll his eyes, despite the growing tightness in his chest. “Perhaps.”

The couple exchanged a smug look.

“What?”

Jafra shrugged, returning to her bowl of salts. “Oh, nothing. We were only wondering.”

Mir nodded. “We think he’s a good addition to the family.”

“...Right,” Jaskier said slowly, suspicious but honestly unwilling to press further. Whatever conclusions the couple had come to were their own. He didn’t need to know.

“Well!” Mir clapped his hands. “Now that we’ve got that settled, why don’t I show you some new things we’ve been working on? I’m sure you and your witcher will love them.”

 _He’s not my witcher,_ Jaskier wanted to say, but he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been entirely true.

If all went according to plan, Geralt wasn’t his witcher _yet._

So Jaskier agreed and let Mir lead him through all the different products along the wall.

He left the apothecary with lighter pockets and two jars of bath salts and hair oil that smelled of faint, fresh sea air. Jaskier had no idea how Mir and Jafra had done it, but he didn’t question things like that anymore. They were a kind couple with good products and intentions, even if they hadn’t stopped shooting knowing glances in his direction until he’d left the shop. Some people were just that way.

Jaskier stopped by the small orchard run by a family of elves on his way back. They sold him a couple of apple tree saplings, to be prepared and picked up tomorrow. He paid and thanked them generously, ignoring their concerned expressions in response to his obvious jitteriness. 

He could do this.

Everything was beginning to fall into place.

Before dinner that night, he slipped the bath salts and hair oil into the cupboard in the washroom that Geralt primarily used. Because of his status as a witcher, he had specially designated towels and such that could be used to scrub monster guts from bloodied skin. Jaskier hadn’t been all too worried about it, but Yennefer and Netta had insisted on some kind of separation between their things and his. Magic cleaning be damned, if they had the means, there was no reason to have their own places and supplies.

He tucked the two jars in the front of the cupboard. Hopefully, Geralt would find them. It was subtle, but it was a start.

Dinner was uneventful, as always. 

Yennefer shot an annoyed glance at Jaskier’s bouncing knee, but Ciri’s emerald eyes shone with understanding. She nodded subtly at him. He grimaced back.

Geralt pretended to be hungry in near silence, and Daisy screamed and flung her mash at the wall. 

Life went on as usual.

Jaskier’s overactive mind did its best to keep him up that night. Anxieties and “what if”s flew around his head, ricocheting against any logical thought they encountered. 

_What if he doesn’t like the gifts?_

_What if he doesn’t understand?_

_What if he just decides he doesn’t want to be in my life anymore?_

That one carried more weight than Jaskier would have liked it to.

He pulled his pillow over his head and muffled a groan. He could do this. He just needed to hold on to his head. 

Jaskier slept. Not well, but he slept.

The elves had told Jaskier that the saplings would be ready for him to retrieve around mid-afternoon. Since it was Netta’s day at the bakery and Daisy was off with Yennefer and Ciri doing Goddess knows what, Jaskier had a little time to kill. 

He grabbed an armful of apples and headed to the stables behind the house. Poor Bumble and Roach hadn’t received as much attention as they deserved in the last four years. They could stand to be pampered for a little while. 

Rosemary and Basil were grazing in their little pen beside the stables. Jaskier threw them a couple of apples before heading for the door. 

Over the years, Roach and Bumble had formed a grudging friendship. Neither of them was fond of the goats, at least not openly, and they’d taken solace in that. Solidarity was important, even for a horse. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but chuckle at that thought. He couldn’t imagine their friendship meant anything except a little company when there was no one else around. But they were a cute picture on their own. That was enough.

As it was, though, they were not on their own.

Geralt stood in the pen between them, back to Jaskier with his forehead pressed to Roach’s neck, as both horses sniffed at his hair.

Jaskier froze in the doorway of the stable. Should he leave? Let Geralt enjoy what was clearly supposed to be a private moment? 

He caught sight of the obviously full saddlebags hanging from Roach’s side. Panic spiked through him.

“You can come in, Jaskier,” Geralt said. His voice was monotone, except for the slight edge it held.

Jaskier started. “Oh, yes, witcher hearing, right,” he laughed awkwardly, taking a couple of steps forward. “Forgot about that.”

Geralt lifted his head with what appeared to be no small amount of effort. He didn’t face the door. “I smelled you.” 

“...Ah.” Jaskier bounced on the balls of his feet, apples still cradled in his hands. He couldn’t stop the mess of words that fell from his mouth. “And what, exactly, is it that I smell like? Have I asked that before? I don’t- I can’t remember, just curious, so I-”

“Grass,” Geralt rumbled. 

Jaskier shut his mouth with a clack of teeth. 

“You smell like windswept grass and bread.” The witcher rolled his shoulders and Jaskier found himself temporarily incapable of words. “Sometimes bitter lemon. Sometimes dirt.” He ran his hands through Roach’s mane. “And whatever flowery oil you use.”

“Honeysuckle,” Jaskier found himself supplying, helpfully. 

Geralt huffed a laugh. “Yes. That.”

Bumble snorted and moved closer to Jaskier, nudging the apples in his hands. Jaskier silently handed him one. 

Roach glared at them, but didn’t move from where she was by Geralt’s side. 

“Were you, ah,” Jaskier swallowed, edging a bit closer. “Were you getting ready to leave?”

The words were acid on his tongue.

“Does that scare you so much?” Geralt finally turned to look at him. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Jaskier took a shaky breath but said nothing.

 _Yes_ , he wanted to scream, _yes, it terrifies me, because I know it will be my fault. And I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to learn how to live without you. Not now. Not again._

Geralt took in whatever was written on Jaskier’s face and exhaled slowly. He turned back to Roach and began toying with the straps of the saddle.

“I was going to. Leave,” he clarified, and Jaskier’s heart sunk through his ribcage onto the straw and dirt beneath his feet. 

A leather strap fell loose and Geralt placed a saddle bag on the stable floor. 

Jaskier felt his brows furrow. “Wait-“

“But I couldn’t. So, I guess you’re stuck with me.” Geralt moved to Roach’s other side to remove the second saddlebag. 

“I’m not… stuck,” Jaskier said. Thinking words out before he tossed them at Geralt had never been a particular talent of his, but he’d be damned if he screwed this moment up. “I’m not stuck with you. I… want you here.”

“Mmm.”

“Geralt, I’m serious,” Jaskier pleaded. 

“What, for the first time in your life?” Golden eyes stayed trained on Roach, resolutely ignoring the man before him. Jaskier couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be a joke, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t sting a little.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Geralt’s voice was unusually gruff. “It’s my fault for getting my hopes up.”

Jaskier’s breathing was far too shallow. “Hopes?”

The witcher’s hands stilled on Roach’s side. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Geralt, I-”

“For _fuck's sake_ , Jaskier,” the witcher growled, eyes burning into Jaskier’s. “Why can’t you just leave it alone?” He threw the saddlebag down with a little too much force before going back to the straps of the saddle itself. “I never should have stayed here.”

“But you’re-” Jaskier’s heart was beating far too loudly. “You said you weren’t leaving.” 

“I’m not.” The saddle was lifted off of Roach’s back and onto the floor. “It was bad enough to get attached to you, but now I’ve gone and dug myself a fucking _grave_ in this town and gotten attached to everyone else. So I have to stay.” 

_Geralt feels like he’s being kept here?_

Jaskier shook his head, desperate, but unsure why. “You don’t have to stay here, if you don’t want, no one’s keeping you-” 

“That’s a fucking lie.” Geralt’s laugh was harsh and bitter. The saddle blanket was tossed carelessly on the straw.

“What? No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.” 

“Geralt, I’m not-”

“You’re right, you’re not,” Geralt agreed with a snarl. “I am.”

Jaskier gaped, incredulous. “ _You_ are? You’re keeping yourself here?”

“Yes, I am.” He stepped around Roach and bared his teeth. “And it’s not your fault, so do me a favor and don’t pretend like it is.”

“Fault?” Jaskier began to throw his arms open but abandoned the movement before the apples could spill to the floor. “I never said anything about fault." He'd certainly thought it, but he'd never voiced it.

“Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about,” the witcher stalked toward him, stopping at the gate of the pen. “Because you know damn well what I mean.”

Time stopped, and Jaskier realized he did, in fact, know damn well what Geralt meant.

_I can’t love him. I just can’t._

“Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Geralt sneered. “I told you not to worry about it, but you never could leave me alone, could you?” 

Jaskier thought he’d prefer it if Geralt just punched him in the gut. He steeled himself. “I’m sorry-”

“I told you it’s fine. Just drop it.” 

Something occurred to Jaskier. Resolve hardened in the pit of his stomach as his feet held him in place.

“Geralt, have you ever wondered _why_ exactly I could never leave you alone?”

The witcher clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Don’t fucking say it.”

“It’s because I l-”

 _“Thirty years ago!”_ Geralt roared.

Jaskier wilted. All he could hear was the witcher’s harsh breathing and the silence in his own head. “What?” he whispered.

“You-” the witcher swallowed roughly. “That was thirty years ago. It doesn’t count.”

Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to say anything other than, “You knew?”

“Of course I knew.” Geralt wrapped his hands into fists and then slowly unfurled them. “Everyone on the damn continent knew. Why did you think I pushed you away?” 

“I don’t know.” The words were more air than real sound.

“I pushed you away because I knew. I knew and I knew it’d break me when you died, which you would have if you’d stayed with me. I did what I thought was right.” 

It felt as though every layer of skin was gently peeling away from Jaskier’s body. He was bare, unprotected. The warm summer air felt like needles, sharp yet rusted, poking new holes across his flesh.

“But you’re here.”

“If anyone ever tells you witchers aren’t weak, they’re a gods damned liar,” Geralt bit out. 

Melitele, he looked tired. He looked like he could keel over at any given second. Jaskier hated it.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, suddenly soft, and exhausted, and _desperate_ , “I am going to say this once as clearly as I can. It is _not your fault.”_

 _Certainly fuckin’ feels like it,_ Jaskier thought. How he’d managed to fuck all of this up was beyond him. He didn’t even know where he was anymore. 

Rough hands were on his shoulders. His gaze latched onto Geralt’s, the door of the gate still between them. Sometimes he forgot that they were on the same eye level. It was incredibly apparent right now.

“It is not your fault,” the witcher repeated, voice lowering. He cleared his throat. “You lost the love of your life and the mother of your child. You’re still healing. You’re not obligated to,“ he struggled for the words, “to feel anything. For me. Just because you once did. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. It’s- I’m alright.” He squeezed Jaskier’s shoulders, begging. _“I don’t blame you.”_

The hands on Jaskier were burning through his shirt. Perhaps Geralt’s skin was peeling away, too.

“I knew about what you… felt. Thirty years ago. And I pushed you away because of it,” Geralt continued, voice just barely beginning to tremble. “And I wish I hadn’t. But if that’s the decision that led me here? To Tenby with you and Yen and Daisy and Netta?” A bittersweet smile twisted his lips. “Then I’ll make my peace with it.” He dropped his hands from Jaskier’s shoulders.

The stable was suddenly far too cold.

Jaskier still had apples in his hands. He’d forgotten about that.

Geralt had known. This whole time, he’d known.

If Jaskier was honest with himself, he’d known, too.

He’d known that the reason Geralt had yelled at him on the mountain was more than just emotional volatility. He’d known and he’d ignored it. It hurt less that way.

But he’d never stopped to consider the possibility that perhaps _Geralt_ loved _him_ . Even when the witcher had asked him to go to Kaer Morhen. Even when he’d come to Tenby with his heart in his hands and eyes that shone with too much fondness. Even when Yennefer had asked Jaskier, flat out, _You know he loves you, right?_ He’d spent so much time caught up in other things that he’d forgotten to realize that Geralt loved him.

 _We had our chance,_ Jaskier had told Lilia. And they had. But not in the way he’d meant.

He’d meant, _I had my chance and I didn’t get what I wanted. I gave up._

But that wasn’t _their_ chance. That was Jaskier’s chance to tell Geralt how he felt. That was a thinly veiled invitation to the coast, a _just trying to work out what pleases me._

And Geralt had known. He’d ignored it. That wasn’t their chance.

Their chance was now.

“I had a plan, you know,” Jaskier said, the words faint and quiet and flinging themselves into the unknown.

“A plan for what?” Geralt’s voice was open and raw and far too vulnerable.

“A plan to fix things between us,” Jaskier answered simply. He let the words lead him. “Netta once told me about love languages. She said mine was giving gifts and acts of servitude. So I was going to… do things for you. Try to see if I could bridge the gap that way.”

“So you’d bake my favorite bread and that would make it all better?” 

“No,” Jaskier stared at the gate between them. “I bought some trees, too. Apple trees. So we could have our own little orchard. And… baths and mending your clothes, things like that.”

The witcher exhaled, the faintest smile on his mouth. “The baths probably would have worked.”

Jaskier laughed quietly and shook his head. “Oh, good, I was banking on those.” He shifted the apples in his hands.

“When was this supposed to start?”

“Yesterday.”

“The salts and oil,” Geralt nodded. “I was wondering what your point was with those. Thought you were saying I smell.”

“You do,” Jaskier offered in a halfhearted attempt to further lighten the mood.

The witcher only hummed. “What was the end goal? Of your plan.”

“I don't know,” the bard answered truthfully. He sighed. “Perhaps I was just hoping we’d go back to the way we were before and start over.”

“You told me we could never go back to the way we were before.”

Jaskier winced. “I did. And I stand by it.” He glanced around for a place to set the apples down, dropping them along the wall of the stable. He stood back up and toyed with the cuffs of his shirt, but met Geralt’s eyes. “You were right when you said I was healing. I’m not whole and I don’t know if I ever will be. But I would like the chance to try.” 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed as Jaskier placed his hands on the gate between them. 

“I don’t-” Jaskier swallowed. “I don’t love you the way that you love me.”

The flinch was quickly smothered but Jaskier noticed it all the same. “But I think I could. I’d like to try,” he said, “if you’d be willing to give me the chance.”

He didn’t think Geralt was breathing.

“You don’t have to agree. I know it’s a lot to ask-”

“Yes,” Geralt whispered, eyes wide with what looked to be fear. “It is.”

Jaskier wanted to hold him. _Gods,_ Jaskier wanted to hold him.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he repeated. His whole being ached. “I need you to know that. I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have. And perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but-”

“Then don’t say it,” the witcher said, the tremble in his voice suspiciously close to pleading.

“I’m _happy_ with you, Geralt,” Jaskier continued, praying the words were steadier aloud than in his head. “I didn’t realize it but I am. And if you’d give me the chance I’d-”

“That’s not fair.”

If Jaskier’s heart had still been in his chest, it would have plummeted to his feet. It shuddered on the dirt by his boots.

“You’re right,” he murmured, eyes falling to his hands. “It’s unreasonable.”

He’d tried. That was all he could do. 

Roach huffed, coming up behind Geralt. She pushed at his back with her snout, but the witcher didn’t move.

“She probably just wants an apple,” Jaskier tried to joke, despite the growing numbness spreading through his limbs. He bent down to grab one, hoping Geralt didn’t notice the effort the movement took. 

When he straightened, both horse and witcher were staring at him intently. Bumble was off in the corner doing his own thing. 

Jaskier glanced between them, anxiety suddenly resurfacing. “What?”

“When you said you ‘could,’” Geralt clenched his jaw, “what did you mean?”

“What?” Jaskier repeated weakly.

“When you said you didn’t love me but you ‘could.’ What did you mean?”

There were too many emotions in Geralt’s gold eyes for Jaskier to decipher them. He inhaled shakily. Geralt would know if he lied. But he didn’t think he wanted to anyway.

“I meant that I… care about you. Deeply. And I think,” he shook his head and corrected himself, “I _know_ that you’re a very easy person to fall in love with. I did it once,” he chuckled feebly, glancing at Roach. “I can’t imagine it would be that hard to do it again.”

The expression on Geralt’s face was undoubtedly one of hope. 

Gods, it made Jaskier ache.

“Alright,” Geralt whispered. 

A piece of Jaskier finally snapped into place. Perhaps it was his heart, finally returning to its spot between his lungs. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

“Alright?” he repeated. 

The witcher nodded wordlessly and reached across the gate to pull Jaskier into a hug. The wood was stiff and uncomfortable between them, but as Jaskier pressed his face into the crook of Geralt's neck and felt Geralt do the same, he decided he didn’t care. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that somewhere, either above or beside or within him, Lilia was watching them. 

As Geralt’s arms tightened around him, Jaskier thought that maybe, just maybe, he could see her smile. 

Sunlight spilled through the window, cresting over the pile of blankets beside Jaskier. He blinked, rubbing the crust out of his eyes.

A second look revealed the pile of blankets to not be blankets at all, but a sleeping witcher, tangled hair flat across his face. Warmth fluttered in Jaskier’s chest as he reached over to brush the hair away, gently, reverently.

“What are you doing?” Geralt mumbled, eyes still closed. 

“You have hair in your face.” Jaskier’s fingers lingered on the witcher’s bearded cheek. “I’m helping you out.”

“Doin’ an awful lot of touching to just be helping, bard,” Geralt said, even as he turned his head into the touch.

“Yes.” A content sigh escaped Jaskier. He cupped the witcher’s face with his hand. “You love it, though.”

“Mmm. Love you.”

Jaskier chuckled, thumb stroking over Geralt’s cheekbone. “I love you, too.”

Geralt opened his eyes, gold meeting blue. He blushed, and it was one of the most beautiful things Jaskier had ever seen.

Jaskier scooted forward to press his lips against Geralt’s, sliding his hand into white hair and holding tight. Their combined morning breath was rank, but Geralt’s mouth was warm and soft, and there was a possessive hand clutching his ass that he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy.

Geralt pulled back and Jaskier whined. 

“Wait,” the witcher whispered. “Listen.”

Outside, the falling leaves rustled in tune with the songbirds. It was peaceful, almost unbearably so.

So, of course, Daisy took that moment to slam their door open and fling her body onto the bed, flailing limbs just managing to miss Jaskier’s delicates. She landed on his legs instead, earning a considerable _oof_ from her father.

“Good morning!” She chirped, crawling to fit between the two men. She laid on her back and glanced back and forth between them. “I’m ready for breakfast now.”

“Goddess, child, don’t you ever sleep?” Geralt laughed, poking her side before sitting up and stretching.

“I sleep,” she said. “But I’m hungry _now_.”

“I think we should start limiting her time with the girls,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at Geralt. Daisy squawked indignantly, prompting Jaskier to wrap her in his arms to hold her still. “She’s becoming too sassy.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the witcher mused. “She gets plenty of that from her father alone.”

Jaskier gasped, mostly for dramatic effect. Daisy giggled triumphantly from her confinement in his arms. 

“She does have a point, though. What _is_ for breakfast?”

“Well, you know what,” the bard pursed his lips, “I think that little Daisy here is perfectly capable of making breakfast herself.” He squeezed her tighter, sending her into another fit of giggles.

“You’re right,” Geralt nodded sagely. “She doesn’t need us.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Well, she certainly doesn’t need _you_.”

“Hey!”

“You burnt eggs!”

“It was _one time,_ you ba-”

“Don’t you dare swear in front of the baby,” Jaskier pointed a finger at Geralt, who was trying so very hard not to smile. “Don’t you do it.”

“I’m not a baby!” Daisy wiggled in protest. “I already know that one. It’s basta-”

Jaskier clapped a hand over her mouth. His eyes widened comically, only a little bit for effect. “This is your fault, witcher.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “Maybe she does need us.”

Daisy’s response was muffled by her father’s hand, but her tone was petulant enough to send Geralt and Jaskier over the edge.

It had been over three years since that day in the stable. Seven since Lilia died. Daisy attended school with Madame Lisko most days of the week. Jaskier had bought her a real lute to go along with the spinet piano, and she was excelling at both.

Geralt and Ciri still went on hunts and returned bruised and battered. After one eventful escapade, Yennefer had brought them back along with Eskel, who had glared at Jaskier throughout an entire dinner before Ciri threw a spoonful of mashed potato at his face, prompting Daisy and Geralt to follow suit. Jaskier was sure there was still food between the boards of the ceiling somewhere. 

Yennefer portalled out of Tenby to meddle in the affairs of various royals and other mages. She began sleeping at Saphia’s place more often than not, but her room at the old house would always remain hers. 

Netta adopted a cat. Well, Kara adopted a cat, and Netta stole it. Jaskier had no idea where the cat resided most days, as he’d sometimes go a whole week without encountering it, before finding it sprawled out in a patch of sun at the bakery. It was incredibly fond of Geralt, Netta and Daisy loved it, and Yennefer remained indifferent. Jaskier gave up trying to police it.

Jaskier still had nightmares from time to time. Daisy’s birthday was still hard. He had his breakdowns and his mood swings and his moments where he felt more desolate and alone than he ever had in all his years of life. 

But so did Geralt.

And so did Yennefer and Netta and Ciri and even Daisy.

She asked about her mother, sometimes. Asked what she was like, what she’d loved, what she’d hated. Jaskier told her. The fire always flickered a little brighter when he did. 

For Daisy’s seventh birthday, they had all gone to the coast. Jaskier had buried his toes in the sand and his face in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt had whispered, “I see now why you wanted to come here.” The bard had taken a deep breath of ocean air and held him closer. 

The coast had been wonderful, but when they’d returned to Tenby, Jaskier had found he didn’t miss it that much. He had all he really wanted here.

 _Tenby collects the lost_ , Lilia had said. 

But perhaps, Jaskier mused, it’s also the home of the found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well. that's it. that's all she wrote.  
> actually, not really. a real sequel is pretty unlikely, but i do want to write a couple ficlets to follow this, which will be in the series this fic is now a part of.  
> in the meantime, i do have other geraskier fics i've posted, and more lined up and ready to come out, so please subscribe if that's something you'd be into!!  
> as always, drop something in the comments or on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) if the urge strikes you. go wild :)  
> special thanks to [linenandlustrous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linenandlustrous/pseuds/linenandlustrous) for proofing this fic and to [a_static_world](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world) letting me whine about it even when i couldn't tell them spoilers. they both write incredible fic, so go check them out! i love you both beyond belief.  
> and thank you so much to all my wonderful readers for your support and love on this fic. it really does mean so much to me.  
> thanks again. see you around.  
> x


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